Pierce Ackles and the Leather Apron: The Tale of Jack the Ripper

By D.B. Harrop

A brilliant detective, a crazed killer, a mysterious couple, a handful of prostitutes

Lives converge and history is altered as an entire city is plunged into an era of panic and terror. A ruthless killer ravages London, seizing its helpless prostitutes; murdering and mutilating their bodies before vanishing, untraced and unpunished.

In a time when lives hang in the balances, when murder is the consequence of failure, when a city teeters upon the brink of pandemonium, it is up to one man to unravel the mystery, to put a face to the myth-like villain; to end the gruesome killing spree.

Delving into the bleakest moments of 1888 when death itself walked the streets of London and blood pierced the denseness of the fog, Detective Pierce Ackles is forced to face his most formidable opponent yet: the illusive Jack the Ripper.

Through meticulous analysis of evidence, an uncanny perception of the darkest elements of human nature, and an unmatched wit, he is set against the worlds most cunning and brutal killers. Driven by a steely commitment and unrelenting desire to see justice prevail, he is the embodiment of every criminals most dreaded opponent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477204351

Book preview

PROLOGUE

East London, September 1888

It was a bleak era in the colorful canvas of London’s history. Widespread poverty and insufficient job opportunities forced thousands into Common Lodging Houses, two hundred thirty-three in the district of Commercial Road alone. Such establishments provided communal lodgings for the over eight and-a-half thousand homeless vagrants that daily flocked to their doors seeking shelter. And while rudimentary at best and lacking in even the most basic of hygiene amenities, the affordable rates somewhat compensated the glaring inadequacies and absence of physical comforts.

Street prostitution was rampant. In addition to the sixty-two brothels whose flagrant activities prompted chagrin amongst London’s elite, the industry had spawned a new variety of night walkers: widows, abandoned mothers and divorcees faced with certain indigence turned to the last remaining recourse for supporting their families. In some cases, alcohol abuse and vice were attributing factors in the ruin of these women. In others, sheer desperation to provide for their children drove them to their ignominious state.

Yet regardless of the origin of their destitution, the shame and degradation that marred the reputations of these unfortunate victims paled in contrast to the terror that had newly gripped London’s citizens.

The previous week a mutilated body had been discovered in a gateway of Whitechapel—the district most infamously known for its rampant crime and egregious immorality. The wave of shock and horror that deluged the city as dawn broke that fateful morning had not since died down.

And tonight was no exception. An eerie silence hung over East London as the moon slipped deeper and deeper into engulfing darkness. A chill wind gnawed through the streets, bearing on its putrid breath suffocating odors of decay and sewage from the rat-infested sidewalks and drainage ways. A blanket of fog almost tangible in density fused with the unforgiving night elements and served to further heighten the pang of dread that stung the city.

An echo of footsteps bounced along the decrepit stones lining the walls of the side streets of Whitechapel as a solitary figure weaved her way through the dark alleys. A shiver racked her spine and she clutched her shawl more tightly about her frame. Her steps quickened. It was not safe being out after dark. Not since him.

She started as a newspaper blew past. The newspapers. They had been first to latch onto the horrific details of the crime and effuse them relentlessly across their pages. As a result, the city was awash with conjecture, speculation, and wild gossip. The topic quickly became the staple of conversations at pubs, poker games, and most notably, the district’s brothels and Common Houses.

Who was the woman found dead and displayed in a manner so macabre? What was she doing in the alleyway that night? Who could have perpetrated such an act? And the question most puzzling of all, why?

She shuddered.

Breathe, she told herself.

She could now see her house in the distance, the sparkle of a dim candle standing solitary on a table near the window emitting a soft glow through the cloudy glass.

Not much further, she sighed.

Lifting her skirts above her ankles she increased her pace to a near run but only managed a few strides before she felt a tug at her shoe as it caught upon a solid object on the ground. Trembling as her body pitched forward and a sting of cold brushed past her face, she shut her eyes tightly, instinctively throwing her arms out before her. But to her great relief she felt her body hit the ground without injury.

I’m a pack of nerves tonight! she sighed to herself and forced a chuckle.

Casting anxious glances about her and remembering that she dared not linger a moment longer in a street as notorious as this, she gathered her wits and prepared to stand. But something caught her eye: the transient glint of an object lying on the ground beside her, the object of her fall.

It was a moment before her eyes adjusted in full to the sight that now seared itself indelibly upon her mind. Still and lifeless, a body lay not more than a foot’s length distance. Arms flung to the side, legs spread apart and eyes whose blank stare mirrored the inky blackness above, it was the body a woman—a woman who had been savagely mutilated.

For a terrifying instant, her breath caught in her throat and a burst of panic coursed through her veins. Then a cry escaped her lips and she clasped her hands to her mouth, forcing herself to stifle the sound.

I must not alert him to my presence! she willed herself. He may still be here.

But the fingers to her face brought an odd sensation.

Bloody hell. she mumbled, as confusion obscured her thoughts.

Straining through the darkness she studied her fingers dazedly. Then a wave of nausea washed over her as her worst fears were confirmed. Her hands were covered in blood: warm, fresh blood that dripped from her fingertips to her palms and down her cuffs.

For a moment the silence of the night was pierced with a shriek of unbridled terror. It carried over the terraced houses and along the hollow alleyways, its resounding cry seeming foreign to her ears. She screamed until her lungs collapsed and her knees gave way. Then the world went silent, black.

CHAPTER 1

One week earlier: Thursday, August 30, 1888

The evening had passed without event. Pierce Ackles did as his customary routine had dictated for as long as he could remember: scribbled snatches of text into his little brown book.

He sat at a large mahogany desk inlaid with maple and ivory. It faced a wide window that provided a sweeping view of the sprawling city below. The day had not been eventless; far from it. As a criminologist and detective investigator whose work had recently brought him to the infamous district of East End, there was no shortage of files to read or case histories to acquaint himself with. It was, after all, no secret that the district amassed more cases within its small borders than any other in London, earning it the reputation as the most vile, dangerous, and dreaded district. Some would go so far as to contend that the staggering counts of violence, crime, theft and debauchery equaled the rest of London combined. But whatever the number, the daunting volume that the district’s police—for all their earnestness—were left baffled by, and the resultant stacks of unsolved cases that sat collecting dust in the sublevel room of the Whitechapel police station, necessitated a substantial amount of reading and catch up work for the detective.

Perhaps it was this very trait—his obsession with a challenge—that had prompted him to abandon his country estate in Derbyshire and move to occupy the comparatively humble third-storey apartment in which he now resided. It had been eight days since his relocation to London and he had not looked back.

Now, in his typical meticulous fashion, he browsed the day’s entries, pausing at various intervals to insert notations into the columns of the worn leather book he was scarcely seen without.

When at length he completed his work, he set the pages aside to dry, allowing his eyes to wander towards the large window that showcased the bustling city below. It was by far his favorite feature of the modest apartment. For here, high above the clamor and confusion, his mind was afforded quiet, clarity and precision.

Moments passed as he stared languidly through the glass at the faint glimmers of light emanating from the shops and pubs below. Crystal droplets of descending rain caught up the gleaming rays and sent them like a splatter of stars across the night’s sky.

He sat in silence some time before his reverie was rudely interrupted by a brilliant bolt of lightning and a jarring crack of thunder. The windows shook violently, as a strong gust of wind forced open one of the smaller ones on the far side of the room.

He was on his feet immediately, bounding towards the now banging window. Latching it securely, he looked down to see the puddle that had formed on the floor.

Bloody hell! he cursed. Blasted rain!

It had been hours since the first fierce pelts of rain hurled their chilling darts on the inhabitants of London. Dust and litter turned to slosh and mud as the steady torrent forged mercilessly down the side streets and alleyways.

He watched through the tearing glass as in the distance billows of red smoke ascended high into the night sky, suffusing the silver hue of the moon with a bloody crimson. The smoke appeared to originate from the direction of the docks.

What are the odds! he thought wryly. A storm and fire on the same night. Mother nature with her peculiar sense of humor. He chuckled as he returned to his desk.

Back at his desk he placed the quill in its resting place and took up his favorite pipe. Taking a long, slow drawl, he closed his eyes, savoring the taste and aroma.

Sumatran tobacco. Is there anything better? He thought not.

Feeling his muscles relax and the strain go out of him, he leaned back in his large chair and lifted his feet to the desk.

Ah…. he sighed. Bliss.

The storm continued to rage, but he was impervious to its fury. After many more inhales on his cherished pipe, he checked to see if the pages of his book were dry. They were. Closing its worn leather case and slipping it into the desk drawer, he extinguished the ivory lamp and rose from his seat.

He stretched. Glancing at his pocket watch he noted the time: three-quarters past nine. Walking to his bed, he sank onto the firm mattress, removed his shoes and made himself comfortable. Then, lifting the book that sat on the nightstand, he cracked it open. With book in one hand, pipe in the other, it wasn’t long before the candle died out and his tired body gave way to a dreamless sleep.

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August 31, 1888

The stillness of night was stirred by the sudden faint succession of rapping on the door. The sound was distant in Pierce’s ears as the last vestiges of sleep gave way to a consciousness his body protested was sorely premature.

Groggily, he rubbed his eyes and grunted. By God, who comes calling at this time of night?

Blindly feeling for the timepiece on the nightstand, he cracked an eyelid and strained to see the time. 5:45 a.m.

Impudent devils! he fumed as he stumbled out of bed and sauntered to the door.

Who’s there? he rasped.

An awkward-sounding voice stammered a reply. It’s Foster, sir. Blake Foster.

What is it you want, boy?

I….I….Mr. Spratling sent me to summon you, sir. He said it is most urgent.

Pierce groaned as he fumbled with the locks on the door. By now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he was beginning to feel alert.

After a moment the door swung open and a boyish-looking young man stood in the doorframe, lantern in hand. He appeared worn, but his eyes immediately perked up upon seeing Pierce and he straightened to a rigid stand.

Pierce eyed him. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen. His damp hair, though vigorously combed and somewhat unceremoniously plastered to his temples, was jaggedly uneven. Both ears jutted out on either side of his oblong head. Wide eyes, too deeply set for his thin-bodied features, and an oversized, knobbly nose, all blended to produce a rather comical look to him. That, together with the crooked smile he flashed as his wiry frame stood expectantly in the doorway, brought a suppressed grin to Pierce’s lips.

Well? What are you waiting for? the latter barked in feigned irritation. Come in, lad!

Blake did as instructed, half walking, half stumbling toward the armchair near the fireplace that Pierce offered him.

Pierce recalled the young man’s introduction earlier in the week as the Whitechapel Police Department’s newly hired crime scene sketch artist. Blake had a keen interest in detective work, and when it came to a pen or brush, his skill was unequalled. Yet as he sat before him now, Pierce wondered that given his physical characteristics Blake had not opted for a career as a cartoonist or caricaturist.

I’d offer you some scotch, he said, breaking the silence, but I’m trying to decide if it’s too early or too late for that, he jested as he slipped into the kitchen to put on a kettle and returned with a tray of china in hand. Some tea, perhaps?

Why thank you, sir, Blake stammered. It is an honor to be invited into the home of a man of your repute.

Pierce eyed him curiously. He himself was barely approaching his thirties, yet somehow the gap in age between the two young men seemed extensively wider. Clearing his throat, he got straight to the point. So tell me, what the devil possessed you to come calling at this hour of the morning? he asked.

Well sir, as I said, I was sent to summon you on a most urgent matter.

Indeed, and yet you have offered no explanation as to why my presence is required.

Inspector Spratling said it is of dire importance that you meet him at the mortuary of Old Montague Street. And, he added, lowering his voice, that I summon you with the utmost discretion.

I see, Pierce said thoughtfully. Go on.

Well sir, there has been a murder. A terrible murder.

And so there are on a daily basis. What makes this one of special significance?

Mr. Spratling did not provide me with particulars of the case, but. he hesitated, I did overhear a conversation between him and Mr. Mann.

And?

Well sir, Mr. Mann was in a dreadful state!

He is the mortuary keeper, is he not? Pierce asked, his brows furrowing.

Yes sir. That’s just it, sir. His work involves the daily tending to of the deceased. And yet.I have never seen him so affected.

Pierce frowned. Did he mention the cause of his agitation?

Blake nodded solemnly. Well yes, sir. It was the condition of the body.a woman’s body. he faltered and his expression was grave.

Well? Pierce said shortly. We haven’t all day.

She was….she was savagely mutilated!

It was less than twenty minutes later that Pierce and Blake reached the mortuary at Old Montague Street. A very tired and fraught-looking middle-aged man with short cropped hair and grey brown eyes met them at the door. He was about five feet, ten inches tall, and wore a crisp grey suit and matching hat.

A few feet to the side of him stood a slightly older man, a man in his fifties Pierce supposed, smaller in stature and of a haggard appearance. He belonged to a lower working class, his clothes indicating him to be a workhouse laborer. A scruffy grey beard covered the majority of his face, and a mass of wiry grey hair that had not met with a good scrub or scissors in some time topped his rounded head.

The middle-aged man whom Pierce recognized as Inspector John Spratling approached him without delay and firmly grasped his hand. Thank you for coming, he said genuinely. I apologize for the inconvenience and for the indecent hour.

Not at all, Pierce countered. I am glad to be of assistance. What is it youneed?

It is a rather peculiar case, Inspector Spratling explained. Prepare yourself, for it is not pretty. Follow me and I will show you. He turned, leading Pierce down a long, dim hall.

The room was a stark white, about fifteen by thirteen feet. It was sparsely furnished, with little other than the solitary table that stood in the center of it. Upon it, a still, white form lay. As Pierce entered, a sickeningly sour smell hit him and he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket to smother his nose and mouth.

Inspector Spratling followed him in, walking to the far side of the room where a small table sat in the corner. On it was a tablet that Pierce supposed contained the description of the deceased, it being customary for the investigating officer to detail the state and particulars of the corpses that were brought in for autopsy.

Blake followed closely behind, his wiry frame sporting a large burlap bag that dangled heavily from his bony shoulder. Setting it on the table, he opened the bag and extracted the items he would need for his sketch.

Directing Pierce towards the lifeless body on the table, Spratling began, This is the woman who was found this morning. As you can see, her throat has been slit, and it appears likely that this was the fatal wound that caused her death. But that is not why I have called you. When her body was initially discovered, it was first attended to by Doctor Rees Llewellyn. He examined her at the scene and pronounced her dead. His instructions were to have her moved here.

So you were not the first to see the body, I take it.

No. Prior to my arrival, at least six men had already seen the deceased. In fact, by the time I arrived, the body had been moved.

I see, Pierce replied. Please continue.

"I was at Hackney Road when I first learned of the murder. It was at approximately half past four this morning that I was summoned to Buck’s Row on account of the discovery of a woman’s body. Upon arrival, I was greeted by Police constable Thain, who informed me that the deceased had already been examined by Police Surgeon Doctor Llewellyn, and thence moved to the mortuary. He pointed out to me the location at which the body was found, and to my great dismay I discovered that overzealous local residents had already begun washing away the evidence of blood and particulars. Naturally, I implored them to stop, but there was by that time little remaining evidence; only small traces of blood between the paving stones on which the woman had lain.

"Obviously, this greatly compromised my investigation of the crime scene. However, there was little that could be done at that point, so after examining what scant elements remained, I departed with the intent of inspecting the body and taking notes on its condition.

"Upon my arrival at the mortuary, I found the deceased still lying in the ambulance outside of the building, with the mortuary securely locked. I waited with the deceased until sometime between 5:00 and 5:20 a.m., at which time Robert Mann arrived with the keys and we moved the body inside.

It was at this point that I was able to chronicle the injuries sustained by the victim and in so doing made a gruesome discovery. While removing her clothing to examine her body I found her abdomen savagely ripped open.

Inspector Spratling’s eyes fell and his voice faltered. Pardon me. The recent crimes that have occurred here in Whitechapel are all too horrific. Never in my life have I encountered anything of this nature. My mind is at quite a loss. He drew in a deep breath and seemed to collect himself somewhat. "It was upon my discovery that I immediately sent for you, Detective Ackles, and for Doctor Llewellyn. I should imagine he will be here soon.

I also instructed constable Thain to re-examine the area of the crime scene as well as the surrounding vicinity. He is there now. At the time of the body’s discovery, no weapon was found anywhere near the site. It is just possible, however, that a thorough search of the area might produce the murder weapon. Let us hope for the best.

As he concluded, the door opened and Doctor Llewellyn entered. He, too, appeared worn and tired, with dark circles framing his small, hazel eyes. But he greeted the men cordially.

Inspector Spratling, Detective Ackles, Mr. Blake, he said with a deferential nod. Shall we begin?

The latter he directed at Pierce, who assenting, closed the distance between the examination table and himself in several swift strides. As he did, he pulled from his waist coat pocket a small magnifying glass. The doctor readied his implements, and a moment later the two began to examine the body.

The woman appeared to be between thirty and forty years old and aside from her fatal injuries was in excellent health. She was of slight stature, about five feet, two, perhaps three, inches tall. Her facial features were small, delicate; with fine lips and high cheekbones.

Pierce surmised immediately that she was not a high born lady. Her apparel was worn, the fabric quality poor. Garish remnants of poorly applied cosmetics were evident on her blood-stained face.

Her hair, now tinged with blood, was deep brown in color with silvery strands of grey. Her eyes were brown, her complexion dark, and it was clear that it had been some time since she had properly bathed.

Her clothing was nondescript and provided no clues as to her identity. She wore a reddish-brown faded ulster, ornamented with seven sizeable brass buttons fastened at the front. Under this were two petticoats, one made of a woolen grey fabric, the other flannel. Both items belonged to a workhouse and contained the markings P.R., Princes Road. Only her brown linsey frock appeared to be new. Her chest flannel was white; her stays—which were in moderately good condition, albeit somewhat loose-fitting—were brown, and were fastened with clasps. She wore woolen, black-ribbed stockings and a pair of steel-tipped men’s spring boots, the uppers of which were cut. A bonnet was found lying near her. It was of black straw and was trimmed with black velvet.

Traces of blood were evident on the upper part of her dress and ulster. Remarkably, however, in spite of the numerous mutilations to her body and neck, her clothing was fully intact with no cuts or tears. In fact, no signs of a struggle could be detected.

Much like the features of her face and dress, there was little to distinguish her. She had no money; the meager belongings that had been found with her consisted of a white pocket handkerchief, a hair comb and a small looking glass.

Pierce examined her face and noted severe bruising and extensive discoloration of the skin. She had a small scar on her forehead that appeared to have been there for some time—perhaps since childhood. Three missing teeth, one from the front of the upper jaw, the other two from the left side of her lower jaw, were the only other notable physical irregularities. Aside from these, there were no other marks or distinctive characteristics that could assist in making a positive identification of the woman.

As to the nature of her wounds, Inspector Spratling had not exaggerated. Two deep slashes ran along her throat from the left side of her neck to the right. The gullet, windpipe and spinal cord appeared to have been cut through entirely. The result of the deep incisions was that much of her blood had drained from her body.

The sight of the abdomen was frightful. It had been slashed entirely open right up to the breast bone, leaving her intestines fully exposed. Pierce examined the incision more closely and it struck him that the contents of her abdominal area had been tampered with—appearing almost rearranged. But that was not the strangest part.

Elements of this woman’s organs have been removed! Pierce exclaimed. Look here, he motioned to the doctor.

Doctor Llewellyn was at his side immediately, his instruments directed towards the deep opening of the abdomen. He began to sort through the tangled intestines, tissue, and organs.

That he was a skilled surgeon was immediately apparent. The deftness of hand and steadiness with which he worked was unquestionable. As a former medical student himself, Pierce couldn’t help but admire the man. His movement and incisions were clean and precise.

After a moment he looked up at Pierce, his eyes wide in disbelief. "It is true! Our victim’s uterus has been excised. How bizarre indeed! Certainly the injuries to the face are not uncommon: I have counted three teeth missing and noted a slight laceration of the tongue. But this mutilation of the victim’s lower body is exceedingly peculiar.

"See here the injuries to the neck: again, they are not uncommon in a case of murder. Here, on the left side at approximately one inch below the jaw runs an incision measuring about four inches. It originates at a point immediately below the ear. On the same side but an inch below and commencing about one inch in front of it, is a circular incision. It terminates at a point about three inches below the right jaw. It is this incision—being about eight inches in length—that has completely severed the tissue right down to the vertebrae. Notice too, that the large vessels of the neck on both sides are severed.

"Now, the lighter injuries include a bruise running along the lower part of the jaw on the right side of the face. There are several plausible scenarios which could explain the cause of this bruise, including a blow of the fist or even pressure, as from a thumb. Likewise, a circular bruise is evident on the left side of the face—again, possibly inflicted by the pressure of fingers.

But curiously, in spite of the extensive injuries to the victim’s face and neck, not so much as a trace of blood is evident on the breast of the deceased’s clothing.

This would indicate, Pierce cut in, that she was lying down when her throat was cut.

Correct! the doctor agreed. Now see here, there are no further injuries to the rest of the upper body. It is only when we reach the lower part of the abdomen that the mutilation recommences. At this point, two or three inches from the left side of the abdomen runs a very deep, jagged wound. The tissues are cut entirely through, this being the deepest of several incisions that run across the abdomen. Additionally, three or four similar cuts run downwards on the right side of the victim’s body, all of which were caused by a knife used in a violent downwards sweep.

What can you tell us about the assailant? Inspector Spratling asked. Can you surmise whether he is right-handed or left-handed? And what of the weapon used in the attack? Do you have an idea as to what may have caused the victim’s injuries?

The injuries are left to right, Doctor Llewellyn replied thoughtfully, and if we are to surmise that the victim lay on the ground facing her opponent when her throat was cut, it would indicate that her attacker was a left-handed person. I would hypothesize that the implement used in the attack was a long-bladed knife, not excessively sharp; moderately so, perhaps. But the force with which the injuries were delivered was indeed terrifying.

You believe them to have been inflicted with a single instrument?

I do.

Considering the facts as they stand, Pierce summarized, it is clear that this was no ordinary crime. There are elements that can only be attributed to a person of insanity or a morbidly deranged mind.

With the examination of the deceased thus concluded and no more information to be had, Pierce excused himself from the room.

Once in the hallway, he was met by Inspector Spratling. Well, what do you make of it? the latter asked without hesitation.

Pierce turned to face him but his eyes stared blankly past.

Something plagues me, he replied slowly. The position of the body when she was found…what exactly did it look like?

What do you mean ‘what did it look like’? It was butchered up, exactly as we just witnessed.

But Pierce shook his head. Something is amiss. I am certain of it. He paused a moment. Then, looking his counterpart squarely in the eyes he pressed, Was there anything—anything at all—irregular? Any oddities you may have noticed that seemed unimportant at the time? Perhaps there was something about the position of the body or the limbs….anything at all?

Inspector Spratling pondered the question. Finally he replied slowly, There was one thing. I didn’t see its significance before, but it’s just possible that it may yield a clue. The fellows that discovered the deceased said that when they found her, her skirts had been drawn up to expose the lower half of her body. Naturally, they covered her up.

Pierce said nothing but his expression was grave. Then it is as I feared.

What is as you feared? Am I missing something? Does that detail mean something to you? Spratling appeared more confused than ever.

But Pierce remained silent, his brow furrowed in distinctive lines. The scene, he said finally. Take me to the scene of the crime.

CHAPTER 2

Whitechapel was not a place one would choose to live. Home to the poorest of the poor, its infamy as a hub of violence and immorality was all too well established. The preceding decades had seen swarms of Irish immigrants descend upon East London. Then, to add to the mix, the past seven years had brought an influx of Jewish refugees from Eastern Europe. The resultant overpopulation, coupled with the racial tensions brought on by the newly expanded cross-section of nationalities, greatly compounded the problems confronting the endemically impoverished populace.

As their carriage bounced along the cobble-stone streets, Inspector Spratling filled Pierce in on some of the recent tragedies of East End. He recalled gravely the incident only months before in which on a street much like this a woman had been attacked and left for dead. On April 3, three assailants—one little more than a youth—seized upon the helpless woman as she walked along Osborn Street. First sexually brutalizing her, they proceeded to rob and leave her battered body in the street.

Spratling’s mind flashed to the hospital and the screams of pain that stung the walls as Emma Elizabeth Smith gasped her final breaths. It had been a cruel end for the brave woman. For although she survived the attack—demonstrating such incredible courage and fortitude as to pick herself up and drag her body home—infection set in and she died of peritonitis at the London Hospital the following day.

The police had been inches from apprehending the perpetrators, but as luck would have it, a small delay in what would have been the capture of the suspects afforded them just enough time to make their escape. The bewildered constables were left with no witnesses or leads.

Worse still was the case of the woman found stabbed thirty-nine times. Tabram was her name; Martha Tabram. Her butchered body had been discovered on the first floor of George’s Yard Buildings. On August 7, only three weeks before, Martha Tabram had set out with a female friend and several soldiers. Eye witnesses testified to seeing her in the company of the soldiers into the late hours of the night. But when the key witness in the murder investigation—the female friend of Tabram, who herself was a prostitute—testified in the hearing, she was unable to positively identify any of the soldiers stationed in the city.

She was brought in on numerous occasions, and at one point it seemed hopeful that the case would be solved: she had recognized several officers. But when the men were investigated and found to have solid alibis on the night in question, the police’s efforts were once again frustrated.

To further complicate matters, the woman later retracted her original statement, claiming to have been mistaken about the men she’d earlier identified. Conspiracy theories surfaced as to whether she’d been paid or coerced into silence; but as each lead grew cold when pursued and eventually the leads died out altogether, the case was forgotten.

What kind of savage brutality drives a human to thus dispose of another? Pierce wondered. It is incomprehensible.

For several moments the two men sat in silence. Then a sudden lurch of the carriage as it rounded a corner announced that they had turned onto Buck’s Row.

Buck’s Row was a long, narrow side street, located in the heart of East End. It was roughly one hundred fifty yards’ distance from the London Hospital, and about one hundred yards from Blackwall Buildings. Pierce glanced out the window at the gloomy brick walls of the rundown houses lining the street. Mold ran along the crevices of the tired buildings while rats could be seen scampering along the sidewalks. Even in daylight the place was a picture of despair.

This is it, Spratling announced as the carriage steadied. I assume you’d like to walk the rest of the way?

Pierce nodded and the inspector rapped on the back stay of the carriage as he shouted to the driver to halt.

The carriage slowed, then came to a shuddering stop. Alighting, Pierce paid the driver and took a long look at the road ahead. Flanked on either side of the cobble-stone street was a succession of terraced houses.

He walked slowly, absorbing the details of his surroundings and allowing a mental picture to form in his mind. If even the morning’s rays could not fully banish the grey shadow that encased the scene, it was not difficult to imagine that in the dead of night with the absence of light of any kind it would provide the ideal setting for any night prowler. It was the perfect place for a crime.

After some minutes Spratling pointed out the location where the corpse had been found. The pool of blood that had formed about the body was long gone, though marks had since been drawn, indicating the position in which the deceased had lain.

She was found here, Spratling said, gesturing towards a gated entrance that led to a series of old stables, between this gate. Her feet extended this way, he indicated westward. Her head lay here, he motioned to the east.

The gate was closed and stood at about nine or ten feet. East of it lay a number of run-down, two-storey houses occupied by working class Londoners. The little that Spratling had been able to ascertain indicated that the residents were hardworking and upstanding citizens. A boarding school and playground lay to the west of the gate, while on the north—directly opposite the stable—was Essex Wharf.

Pierce bent down, his eyes now scanning for traces of blood or remnants that had not been fully eradicated. Scribbling notations in his brown leather book, he straightened after some minutes and continued surveying the scene. There were two things that struck him: the close proximity of the railroad, and the fact that slaughterhouses were located only a short distance from the narrow street.

Studying all angles of the location, he examined the gate and the fence nearby, the windows and doors of the surrounding buildings, and every possible escape route the killer may have used. All the while he juggled a magnifying glass in one hand and his brown leather book in the other.

Inspector Spratling, meanwhile, took to questioning residents of the area. Earlier that morning he had spoken with a watchman from the Great Eastern Railway. The man’s watch box stood a mere fifty to sixty yards from the stable gate, yet astonishingly, he professed to having heard nothing during the night or in the wee hours of the morning.

Further door-to-door investigation of more than half