Jack the Ripper: The Hand of a Woman

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
     
     
    One name, more than any other, conjures up images of thick swirling fog, dark Victorian passageways and shadowy gas-lit squares, brutally slaughtered victims, a faceless murderer clutching a blood-stained knife, and a timeless unsolved mystery… Jack the Ripper.
    Several years ago, and long before the prospect of writing my own book about this most elusive of all murderers ever occurred to me, I visited a London bookshop. There I skimmed through the pages of another Ripper paperback, the title of which I am now unable to recall. Recently I was reminded of a brief passage from that work. The author mentioned that, during the course of his writing, he felt there were three people living in his home, although the dinner table was only ever laid for two. The third occupant in the household, the uninvited guest, was of course Jack. During the latter period when I was working on Jack the Ripper: The Hand of a Woman , I felt the same way, but it was not the murderer who shared our family home.
    After our investigation started, but well before it finished, sadly my father, Byron Morris, died aged ninety-six. An aircraft engineer by profession, many of his earlier years were spent pursuing his hobby of watchmaking, the very same part-time activity enjoyed by Detective Inspector Frederick Abberline, the co-ordinating officer instructed by Scotland Yard to track down the Whitechapel murderer. The last years of my father’s life were devoted to historical research, and in this field he made many unexpected discoveries, of which the true identity of Jack the Ripper and the motive for the terrible crimes are just two.
    After his death, I continued with our project alone, but I always felt that he was standing at my shoulder helping and encouraging me. Sometimes when I was uncertain how to proceed, a small voice would make a suggestion that invariably turned out to be the right one; at other times I would ask my father for advice and it was always given; whether this was from my subconscious and the many years of his welcome guidance and influence, or perhaps a voice from beyond the grave, having checked various aspects of the case with the original sources, I do not know. But whichever is correct, I am truly grateful for his encouragement, help and love.
    I wish to thank Jonathan Williams, my literary agent, for his dedication, impeccable editorial advice, incisive judgement, so much selfless hard work, and of course, his friendship. Without him, this book, to which he contributed so much, would never have seen the light of day and, I have little doubt, the truth about the murders would never have become known.
    I also wish to thank Mick Felton of Seren; not only for publishing my work, which almost goes without saying, but for his true professionalism, commitment and acuity in showing me what more was needed to make the original account so much more compelling, and I hope, more enjoyable too.
    My thanks also to the management and staff of Druids Glen Resort for their kindness in allowing me the extensive use of their business facility.
    With grateful thanks also to my wonderful family, my fiercest critics who encouraged me from the outset; for their invaluable suggestions, sometimes solutions, and always absolute confidence, my sister for a historical perspective, and particularly my wife Yvonne, for her infinite patience and the inexplicable trust she placed in me. I shake my head as I wonder why.
     
    John Morris
Druid’s Glen, Co. Wicklow, Ireland, July 2011

PROLOGUE
     
     
    I clearly remember my first eureka moment, that split-second when, in an instant, everything became crystal clear, and the previously obscure was now bindingly obvious.
    I was born in the early 1950s and grew up in rural Northamptonshire during an era when young children were expected to listen to what their elders had to say. Usually I found their talk to be dull, but occasionally the conversation would become more interesting. At such times, I would listen eagerly and the hours would fly.
    It was on one of these occasions that I heard about a mysterious character called Jack the Ripper. He captured my imagination and has continued to haunt my life ever since. He was said to have murdered his unfortunate victims, all ‘fallen women’, in London’s East End district of Whitechapel during the autumn of 1888. The killings were all brutal, bloody and carried out using a scalpel-sharp knife. One of the reasons for his