A Moment On the Edge : 100 Years of Crime Stories By Women

Eddowes, during the small hours of the thirtieth of September. Berner Street and Mitre Square, a fifteen-minute walk from each other. The Stride woman was Swedish by birth and claimed to be a widow, but I have heard that may not be true. She was a notorious inebriate, according to one of the constables patrolling Fairclough Street, and she may simply have been ashamed to admit her husband would not allow her near the children — the nine children. Is this also correct?”

The Inspector was looking bemused. “It is.”

“Of Catherine Eddowes I know very little. But the Times said she had spent the night before her death locked up in the Cloak Lane Police Station, because she’d been found lying drunk in the street somewhere in Aldgate. And you yourself told me she had a daughter. Did she also have a husband, Inspector?”

He nodded slowly. “A man named Conway. We’ve been unable to trace him.”

The same pattern in each case. “You’ve said on more than one occasion that the four victims had only their prostitution in common.

But in truth, Inspector, they had a great deal in common. They were all in their forties. They were all lacking in beauty. They had all been married. They all lost their homes through a weakness for the bottle.” I took a breath. “And they were all mothers.”

Inspector Abberline looked at me quizzically.

“They were all mothers who abandoned their children.”

He considered it. “You think the Ripper had been abandoned?”

“Is it not possible? Or perhaps he too had a wife he turned out because of drunkenness. I don’t know where he fits into the pattern.

But consider. The nature of the murders makes it quite clear that these women are not just killed the way the unfortunate victim of a highwayman is killed — the women are being punished.” I was uncomfortable speaking of such matters, but speak I must. “The manner of their deaths, one might say, is a grotesque version of the way they earned their livings.”

The Inspector was also uncomfortable. “They were not raped, Mrs. Wickham.”

“But of course they were, Inspector,” I said softly. “They were raped with a knife.”

I had embarrassed him. “We should not be speaking of this,” he said, further chagrined at seeming to rebuke the vicar’s wife. “These are not matters that concern you.”

“All I ask is that you consider what I have said.”

“Oh, I can promise you that,” he answered wryly, and I believed him. “I do have some encouraging news,” he continued, desirous of changing the subject. “We have been given more men to patrol the streets — more than have even before been concentrated in one section of London! The next time the Ripper strikes, we’ll be ready for him.”

“Then you think he will strike again.”

“I fear so. He’s not done yet.”

It was the same opinion that was held by everyone else, but it was more ominous coming from the mouth of a police investigator. I thanked Inspector Abberline for his time and left.

The one thing that had long troubled me about the investigation of the Ripper murders was the refusal of the investigators to acknowledge that there was anything carnal about these violent acts. The killings were the work of a madman, the police and the newspapers agreed…as if that explained everything. But unless Inspector Abberline and the rest of those in authority could see the fierce hatred of women that drove the Ripper, I despaired of his ever being caught.

10 November 1888, Miller’s Court, Spitalfields.

At three in the morning, I was still fully dressed, awaiting Edward’s return to the vicarage. It had been hours since I’d made my last excuse to myself for his absence; his duties frequently kept him out late, but never this late. I was trying to decide whether I should go to Dr. Phelps for help when a frantic knocking started at the door.

It was a young market porter named Macklin who occasionally attended services at St. Jude’s, and he was in a frantic state. “It’s the missus,” he gasped. “’Er time is come and the midwife’s too drunk to stand up. Will you come?”

I said I would. “Let me get a few things.” I was distracted, wanting to send him away; but this was the Macklins’ first child and I couldn’t turn down his plea for help.

We hurried off in the direction of Spitalfields; the couple had recently rented a room in a slum building facing on Miller’s Court. I knew the area slightly. Edward and I had once been called to a doss house there to minister to a dying man. That was the first time I’d ever been inside one of the common lodging houses; it was a big place, over three hundred beds and every one of them rented for the night.

Miller’s Court was right across the street from the doss house. As we went into the courtyard, a girl of about twelve unfolded herself from the doorway where she had been huddled and tugged at my skirt. “Fourpence for a doss, lady?”

“Get out of ’ere!” Macklin yelled. “Go on!”

“Just a moment,” I stopped him. I asked the girl if she had no home to go to.

“Mam turned me out,” the girl answered sullenly. “Says don’t come back ’til light.”

I understood; frequently the women here put their children out on the street while they rented their room for immoral purposes. “I have no money,” I told the girl, “but you may come inside.”

“Not in my room, she don’t!” Macklin shouted.

“She can be of help, Mr. Macklin,” I said firmly.

He gave in ungraciously. The girl, who said her name was Rose Howe, followed us inside. Straightaway I started to sneeze; the air was filled with particles of fur. Someone in the building worked at plucking hair from dogs, rabbits, and perhaps even rats for sale to a furrier. There were other odors as well; the building held at least one fish that had not been caught yesterday. I could smell paste, from drying match boxes, most likely. It was all rather overpowering.

Macklin led us up a flight of stairs from which the banisters had been removed — for firewood, no doubt. Vermin-infested wallpaper was hanging in strips above our heads. Macklin opened a door upon a small room where his wife lay in labor. Mrs. Macklin was still a girl herself, only a few years older than Rose Howe. She was lying on a straw mattress, undoubtedly infested with fleas, on a broken-down bedstead. A few boxes were stacked against one wall; the only other piece of furniture was a plank laid across two stacks of bricks.

I sent Macklin down to fill a bucket from the water pipe in the courtyard, and then I put Rose Howe to washing some rags I found in a corner.

It was a long labor. Rose curled up on the floor and went to sleep.

Macklin wandered out for a few pints.

Day had broken before the baby came. Macklin was back, sobriety returning with each cry of pain from his young wife. Since it was daylight, Rose Howe could have returned to her own room but instead stayed and helped; she stood like a rock, letting Mrs. Macklin grip her thin wrists during the final bearing-down.

The baby was undersized; but as I cleared out her mouth and nose, she voiced a howl that announced her arrival to the world in no uncertain terms. I watched a smile light the faces of both girls as Rose cleaned the baby and placed her in her mother’s arms. Then Rose held the cord as I tied it off with thread in two places and cut it through with my sewing scissors.

Macklin was a true loving husband. “Don’t you worry none, love,”

he said to his wife. “Next ’un’ll be a boy.”

I told Rose Howe I’d finish cleaning up and for her to go home.

Then I told Macklin to bring his daughter to St. Jude’s for christening.

When at last I was ready to leave, the morning sun was high in the sky.

To my surprise the small courtyard was crowded with people, one of whom was a police constable. I tried to work my way through to the street, but no one would yield a passage for me; I’m not certain they even knew I was there. They were all trying to peer through the broken window of a ground-floor room. “Constable?” I called out. “What has happened here?”

He knew me; he blocked the window with his body and said,

“You don’t want to look in there, Mrs. Wickham.”