Patricia Cornwell – Portrait Of A Killer Jack The Ripper
Portrait Of A Killer Jack The Ripper Case Closed
PATRICIA CORNWELL
To Scotland Yard’s John Grieve You would have caught him.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER One: MR. NOBODY
CHAPTER Two: THE TOUR
CHAPTER Three: THE UNFORTUNATES
CHAPTER Four: BY SOME PERSON UNKNOWN
CHAPTER Five: A GLORIOUS BOY
CHAPTER Six: WALTER AND THE BOYS
CHAPTER Seven: THE GENTLEMAN SLUMMER
CHAPTER Eight: A BIT OF BROKEN LOOKING GLASS
CHAPTER Nine: THE DARK LANTERN
CHAPTER Ten: MEDICINE OF THE COURTS
CHAPTER Eleven: SUMMER NIGHT
CHAPTER Twelve: THE YOUNG AND BEAUTIFUL
CHAPTER Thirteen: HUE AND CRY
CHAPTER Fourteen: CROCHET WORK AND FLOWERS
CHAPTER Fifteen: A PAINTED LETTER
CHAPTER Sixteen: STYGIAN BLACKNESS
CHAPTER Seventeen: THE STREETS UNTIL DAWN
CHAPTER Eighteen: A SHINY BLACK BAG
CHAPTER Nineteen: THESE CHARACTERS ABOUT
CHAPTER Twenty: BEYOND IDENTITY
CHAPTER Twenty-One: A GREAT JOKE
CHAPTER Twenty-Two: BARREN FIELDS AND SLAG-HEAPS
CHAPTER Twenty-Three: THE GUEST BOOK
CHAPTER Twenty-Four: IN A HORSE-BIN
CHAPTER Twenty-Five: THREE KEYS
CHAPTER Twenty-Six: THE DAUGHTERS OF COBDEN
CHAPTER Twenty-Seven: THE DARKEST NIGHT IN THE DAY
CHAPTER Twenty-Eight: FURTHER FROM THE GRAVE
There was a general panic, a great many excitable people declaring that the evil one was revisiting the earth.
– H.M., ANONYMOUS EAST END MISSIONARY, 1888
CHAPTER ONE
MR. NOBODY
Monday, August 6, 1888, was a bank holiday in London. The city was a carnival of wondrous things to do for as little as pennies if one could spare a few.
The bells of Windsor’s Parish Church and St. George’s Chapel rang throughout the day. Ships were dressed in flags, and royal salutes boomed from cannons to celebrate the Duke of Edinburgh’s forty-fourth birthday.
The Crystal Palace offered a dazzling spectrum of special programs: organ recitals, military band concerts, a “monster display of fireworks,” a grand fairy ballet, ventriloquists, and “world famous minstrel performances.” Madame Tussaud’s featured a special wax model of Frederick II lying in state and, of course, the ever-popular Chamber of Horrors. Other delicious horrors awaited those who could afford theater tickets and were in the mood for a morality play or just a good old-fashioned fright. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was playing to sold-out houses. The famous American actor Richard Mansfield was brilliant as Jekyll and Hyde at Henry Irving’s Lyceum, and the Opera Comique had its version, too, although poorly reviewed and in the midst of a scandal because the theater had adapted Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel without permission.
On this bank holiday there were horse and cattle shows; special “cheap rates” on trains; and the bazaars in Covent Garden overflowing with Sheffield plates, gold, jewelry, used military uniforms. If one wanted to pretend to be a soldier on this relaxed but rowdy day, he could do so with little expense and no questions asked. Or one could impersonate a copper by renting an authentic Metropolitan Police uniform from Angel’s Theatrical Costumes in Camden Town, scarcely a two-mile stroll from where the handsome Walter Richard Sickert lived.
Twenty-eight-year-old Sickert had given up his obscure acting career for the higher calling of art. He was a painter, an etcher, a student of James McNeill Whistler, and a disciple of Edgar Degas. Young Sickert was himself a work of art: slender, with a strong upper body from swimming, a perfectly angled nose and jaw, thick wavy blond hair, and blue eyes that were as inscrutable and penetrating as his secret thoughts and piercing mind. One might almost have called him pretty, except for his mouth, which could narrow into a hard, cruel line. His precise height is unknown, but a friend of his described him as a little above average. Photographs and several items of clothing donated to the Tate Gallery Archive in the 1980s suggest he was probably five foot eight or nine.
Sickert was fluent in German, English, French, and Italian. He knew Latin well enough to teach it to friends, and he was well acquainted with Danish and Greek and possibly knew a smattering of Spanish and Portuguese. He was said to read the classics in their original languages, but he didn’t always finish a book once he started it. It wasn’t uncommon to find dozens of novels strewn about, opened to the last page that had snagged his interest. Mostly, Sickert was addicted to newspapers, tabloids, and journals.