I, Ripper

Yet in all the mirth, a certain melancholy cannot be denied. First, poor Annie has been lost in all this. It seems that I, her slayer, her strangler, her vivisectionist, am the only being on earth who laments her passing, doomed enough by corrupted lung as the poor lass was, testimony of Dr. Phillips proving the point. I could solipsistically argue that my intercession spared the poor lady much in the way of pain and dissolution, in exchange merely for time, a year’s worth. But I will not. Each man’s death and et cetera diminishes even me. It was my agency and I am the bloke all are on the prowl to bring down and see floating beneath the gallows arm, suspended by a stout piece of hemp. I am guilty, guv’nor, at least by your laws.

Like that of Polly before her, Annie’s character flaw appeared to be alcoholism, perhaps brought about by the wretched and crushing fates of two of her three children, one an early death, the other a cripple who had to go into a state ward. As before, there was no net to capture the falling Annie, and she landed in Whitechapel’s most wretched slum, the Wicked Quarter Mile, as it has been called, selling notch and lip for enough bad gin to drown the pain. There is little else to tell; the most remarkable thing about her was the encounter with me and, I suppose, her surprisingly strong, straight teeth, so unusual that even Phillips remarked on them in his report. If anyone of celestial royalty is listening – as an atheist, I doubt it, but one must abide by the ceremony – I hereby apologize for the botch I made of the passing. The business of the left hand and the constriction of the throat happened, as it were, spontaneously, but nevertheless, it speaks as an expression of and extension of my will which would not be denied, so I will not deny responsibility. The knife at least takes these angels quickly and sends them painlessly to their god and his heaven, if that is where they in fact go, or possibly just into a painless forever of dreamless sleep. The strangulation business is ugly, to say nothing of difficult to manage and slow to take effect. My apology and my pledge to all who come before me never to repeat the sacrilege.

On the other hand, another of my plans is working splendidly, beyond ANNIE’S WEDDING RINGS. That is this business of the Jews. It is something I had foreseen, as it seems to be a universal. Wherever they go, these people inflame malice, envy, anger, suspicion, and violence. Yet Mr. Disraeli was a Jew, was he not? The great banking family Rothschild, which has financed many of the glorious buildings of Paris and other cities, is Jewish. Many great philosophers are Jewish, as are scientists, mathematicians, scholars, and doctors. I suspect the hatred that always accompanies their presence has to do with the fact that some of them have a gift for numbers and are able to figure in extreme speed the advantage of this rate over that rate in the long term versus the short term, and they have a way of offering deals that sound good to the taker, except that in time he learns the terms were not in his favor.

An ugly current has been loosened, egged on by reprehensible newspapering, as led by the noxious Mr. Harry Dam of the Star. He was, for a time, obsessed with some apparition called Leather Apron, a mystical Jew butcher-beast, and as a consequence, Whitechapel became unsafe for the many poor Jews who live there. About that reality, neither Dam nor the Star appears to care a jot! In any event, Leather Apron was soon rounded up and found completely innocent, as were several other Jews and marginal wretches who bumbled into Warren’s crude dragnet. But even as these cases are revealed to be without foundation, nobody is listening and the temperature is rising. Soon lynchings may occur, followed by pogroms, neighborhood burnings, the death of innocents. It will be a return to the Middle Ages.

It is the most perfect screen for my next and most ingenious move. My mind is clever, and if I plot carefully, reconnoiter adroitly, and am bold, I will triumph in the end. This stroke of genius has an added advantage: I have enough blood on my hands and will happily greet Old Scratch when he leads me to hell’s tenth circle, but I do not need to add that of a thousand Jewish babies. I will be cleansed of that sin. Egad, have I accidentally done something moral? How appalling!

CHAPTER TEN Jeb’s Memoir

opened the envelope – finding it first of all to be on the heavy cream stock of higher taste, familiar somehow – removed the missive inside, unfolded it, half recognized the penmanship, and then fully recognized it fully: Charlie!