Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

In the East End of London, world-famous for its rough atmosphere, there lay a street called Hanbury Street.
A typical slumscape unfolded: uneven circular cobblestones whose gaps were filled with powdery straw and horse dung, while barefoot children in tattered clothes clamored through the thoroughfare from dawn till dusk.
Flanking both sides stood what might be called tenement row houses—apartments degraded to their lowest form—uniform stained old brick structures that ceaselessly emitted that peculiar slum-district stench: a sour-sweet wet reek of rotting matter, standing dark and silent in their rows.
House No. 29 was also one of these; passing through its front entrance—shaped like a rounded gate—would immediately lead one into the courtyard.
From this courtyard, numerous families living within a single building came and went to their respective rented rooms.
Therefore, there were numerous doorways around the courtyard, and the front door directly facing the thoroughfare was kept open even at night.

This district served as a den for the lowest-tier prostitutes who catered to laborers and lower-ranking sailors from various nations. However, unlike Japan where such women congregated within designated red-light districts, these women operated independently, making the area appear indistinguishable from any ordinary street at first glance. Yet it essentially became a haunt frequented by streetwalkers—from around 8:30 PM when theaters and variety shows commenced, they would roam the main thoroughfares and side alleys of this vicinity seeking men along the streets.
Once they found a client, they would typically conduct the transaction immediately in some nearby shadow, though depending on the arrangement they might take him to their own room.
At House No. 29 on Hanbury Street, where a considerable number of these streetwalkers rented rooms at the time, it had been arranged that the front door would remain unlocked throughout the night to facilitate their bringing clients inside after dark.
In other words, anyone could freely come and go all the way into the courtyard.

It was late at night on September 8th.

It was early autumn, when London often saw passing showers.
As scattered rain began falling late that night too, a landlady living on the third floor remembered laundry she had forgotten to retrieve.
Laundry in the East End was always dried by stringing ropes between windows and hanging it there—the universal method throughout the district.
Hearing the rain's patter, the landlady scrambled up and flung open her courtyard-facing window.
Though the drizzle left the night pitch-black, she discerned two figures struggling over something on the stone steps leading into the courtyard.
Their tussle seemed half-playful.
The woman giggled low, "No, you mustn't.
"I don't want to," came her audible refusal.
Her companion was a man wearing an abnormally long coat.
But as noted earlier, this ill-reputed district made midnight scenes like this unremarkable.
Likely another room-renting woman had dragged a man here and now argued about whether he'd stay or leave.
Thinking this, the landlady dismissed it from mind.
Soon even this commotion quieted.
Come dawn, a man named Davis went to fetch coal from the courtyard's communal storage area and discovered that unspeakable corpse—too ghastly to behold.

The victim was Annie Chapman.
She was not a lodger at No. 29, but remained a Hanbury Street prostitute, her throat slashed through in one brutal stroke.
The work suggested someone wielding both formidable strength and surgical skill—the neck nearly decapitated, blade marks from the killing thrust etched into paving stones beneath her nape.
Yet this proved merely the mortal blow.
The corpse's lower half displayed violence transcending terms like 'gruesome' or 'savage'—a spectacle recalling wild beasts ravaging prey, too horrific to behold directly.
The victim's skirt lay draped over her lower abdomen.
When removed, the autopsy physician and gathered officers recoiled in visceral shock.
From genitals to abdomen, the flesh gaped like a burst pomegranate.
Nor stopped there—the genitalia itself had been excised with clinical precision, a pubic-haired flesh chunk discarded against the wall's base.
But worse awaited.
Through this ghastly aperture, entrails had been scooped out and strewn about—a child's overturned toy box of purpling organs—with one glaring absence: the uterus.

At that time, there existed a mysterious murderer known to all—himself included—as "Jack the Ripper," an endlessly elusive phantom who had plunged all of London into the depths of terror.
That this was yet another defiant crime of his became clear to anyone at a glance.
Recently, three brutal murders of exactly the same pattern had occurred in quick succession in this East End neighborhood.
The victims were always streetwalkers, the crime scenes always outdoors—either in the darkness of some minor alleyway or a courtyard like this Hanbury Street one—and though occurring at midnight, they were brazenly carried out in locations where one could hear the footsteps of passersby and that were relatively exposed to human eyes.
The fatal wound was invariably a single slash across the throat; then an autopsy-like brutality would be inflicted upon the corpse's lower half—as if stamped with a seal—the uterus always missing.
It was evident that these were serial crimes committed by the same individual.
Public sentiment trembled; newspapers overflowed with these reports; conversations revolved around nothing else; amateur detectives desperate to outpace the police emerged en masse—and all this frenzy erupted precisely when, needless to say from September 8th's night onward but indeed well before, meticulous police cordons had been established across the entire East End, while an exhaustive manhunt combed through every nook and cranny.
At the very heart of this dragnet, the human beast "Jack the Ripper" escalated his gruesome spree—and through this murder of Annie Chapman on Hanbury Street, sated his thirst for fresh blood once more.
In terms of appearing and vanishing at will, they say there has never been one as mysteriously elusive as this fiend before or since.
The so-called artless art—precisely because he employed no schemes, he left not a single clue behind.

To enumerate each individual crime would only invite needless complication; therefore, we shall refrain.
Yet even when extracting only those incidents that gained notoriety in some regard, there remains: the aforementioned September 8th murder of Annie Chapman in Hanbury Street; the Bucks Row incident; then on the 30th of the same month, Elizabeth Stride killed in Berner Street followed forty-five minutes later by Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square—two murders in a single night; and on November 9th, Kelly also known as Watts slain in Dorset Street.
In addition to these, other similar prostitute murders occurred during this period; however, the ghastly state of the corpses—the missing uterus, severed genitals, evidence of perverse indulgence in toying with viscera—along with the methods of the crimes and the sheer brutality were all identical.

What was the renowned Metropolitan Police doing?

To be honest, they were utterly powerless.
There seemed to be considerable clues, yet in truth, not a single one could be relied upon as credible.
In the Berner Street case, a man doing subcontracting work for a transport company brought a small carriage into his home's backyard—there discovering Elizabeth Stride collapsed in a pool of blood, nicknamed "Long Liz" due to her height.
As will later become clear, this woman had unwittingly played a critical role in the moments before her death—but when her corpse was discovered mere seconds after the crime, the body was still gushing fresh blood, its crimson pool rapidly spreading across the ground. Had the discoverer arrived just one step sooner, he would undoubtedly have witnessed both the dissection in progress and the perpetrator himself.
In fact, Jack had likely just abandoned the corpse and pressed himself against the nearest dark wall when the discoverer’s carriage arrived.
The horse, startled by the foul stench and brought to an abrupt halt, was within one step of trampling the corpse.
The criminal watched this discovery unfold from nearby.
He likely slipped away quietly into the darkness just as commotion was about to erupt—yet despite the crime scene being directly beneath the windows of the Berner Street Social Democratic Federation branch where thirty to forty party members had gathered at the time of the murder—not a single person heard any sounds.
This was hardly surprising.
Even among normally boisterous political party members, thirty to forty particularly argumentative Social Democrats had clustered together—so even if a bomb had exploded beside their ears, they wouldn’t have heard it.
Later, everyone spoke ill.
In any case, Jack the Ripper—who had likely slipped past the discoverer preoccupied with the corpse like a shadow—immediately made his way to Mitre Square in Aldgate where forty-five minutes later he murdered yet another prostitute named Catherine Eddowes, once again slashing open her genitals through the lower abdomen and removing her uterus.
How pitifully poor and low-class Catherine Eddowes and other victims were becomes evident from this single incident where she engaged in a sexual act with a man—the perpetrator—under someone else's eaves while wearing a cooking-stained apron before being killed on the spot.
The criminal tore off this apron's edge to wipe his hands and knife.
He appears to have walked while wiping.
Not far away at Goulston Street's corner lay the blood-sodden apron fragment heavy with gore.
And at this Goulston Street corner, the perpetrator wrote that infamous "Jack the Ripper's Manifesto" upon the wall in white chalk.

The Jews are not themen to beblamed for nothing.

This was a phrase that could be interpreted in two ways depending on one's perspective.
"Jewish people are not those who are denounced without reason"—implying there must be justification for their persecution.
One could interpret it that way, but of course that was not the case.
"Do you think I'll just slink away after being condemned for no cause?"
In essence meaning "This is how it stands," a strangely defiant parting shot that grew more unnerving the longer one contemplated it.

This graffiti truly committed a regrettable act.
Shortly after its creation, a patrolling constable discovered it and erased it in panic.
The area housed many Jewish residents.
Anti-Semitic individuals from various nations—the British foremost among them—were likewise numerous.
Had this phrase reached public eyes, crowds would have descended instantly given the volatility, sparking racial warfare in the streets.
Such disturbances being far from rare, he claimed to have obliterated it unilaterally to prevent chaos.
What he imagined as helpfulness proved disastrous folly—subsequent analysis revealed these wall markings constituted nothing less than a millennium-defining evidentiary treasure.
Preservation and scientific examination alone would have guaranteed the killer's capture, experts later asserted.
Though the overzealous constable likely suffered pay deductions and rural reassignment, investigators noted this graffiti's hand matched correspondence previously mailed twice to Central News Agency—a letter and postcard.
No—it was declared unmistakably identical.

The letter and postcard addressed to the Central News Agency became a major controversy at the time, with debates over their authenticity; the postcard was clearly inscribed using human blood, with blood-smeared fingerprints pressed thickly across it.
Both communications began with the American-style colloquialism “Dear Boss,” employing threatening language to proclaim new crimes, with the letter adding: “I shall inflict no harm upon ladies who are not prostitutes, so rest assured on that account”—each signed “Jack the Ripper.”
Given that similar items continued arriving afterward, these were likely authored and mailed by the actual perpetrator.
But every nation breeds its share of incurable fools.
With this “Jack the Ripper” currently dominating public attention, some might mistake him for some sort of celebrated figure—or at the very least, there’s no telling whether curiosity-driven idlers might not systematically commence such unscrupulous pranks purely for the thrill of causing uproar.
This remained entirely plausible.
To the Metropolitan Police too, similar letters cascaded in like an avalanche during this period.
Consequently, experts placed little faith in these Central News communications, dismissing them from the outset with derisive laughter.
Yet the writing on Goulston Street’s wall alone constituted the first and last authenticated specimen of the perpetrator’s own hand.
That this sole piece of crucial evidence should be annihilated through one constable’s thoughtless act represented nothing less than tragedy compounded.

2

Though unknown to the general public, at this time the Metropolitan Police had received a piece of intelligence from the Russian government and attached a certain degree of importance and hope to it.
Several years prior, Moscow had seen a spate of identical crimes where again only prostitutes were exclusively targeted and murdered, with surgical brutality added to each corpse—yet this perpetrator had been apprehended, identified as mentally ill, and confined to a local mental asylum.
However, he had escaped from the hospital that spring and had since remained missing.
This madman had originally been a highly skilled surgeon and had even studied in Britain, so it was possible that after escaping, he had secretly made his way to London.
Since a facial description was also attached, the Metropolitan Police temporarily devoted their full efforts to investigating individuals matching its criteria.
The Moscow criminal's motive stemmed from religious fanaticism and delusion.
In other words, he believed that only by being killed in this manner could these defiled women pass through the gates of Heaven—in short, he killed them for their salvation.
Setting aside the matter of religious fanaticism for a moment, there can be no doubt that "Jack the Ripper," who now horrifies London, possesses considerable anatomical knowledge and is an experienced surgeon.
He knew with certainty the anatomically precise location of the uterus and had professional expertise in the optimal method for extracting it without causing damage.
From the Bucks Row corpse, the left kidney had been exquisitely removed; the extraction of this organ was considered an exceedingly difficult feat in surgery, requiring considerable practical skill to accomplish.
Synthesizing these points, regardless of whether he was identical to the Moscow criminal, a natural conclusion emerged that this “Jack” must also belong to the category of mad doctors—a theory that swept through experts both within and outside the Metropolitan Police with supreme authority—but the kidney in question was delivered two days after the incident to the Metropolitan Police Investigation Division by parcel post, neatly wrapped in newspaper.
There was no accompanying letter—only the outer wrapping paper bore the usual bloody fingerprints—and whether out of some perceived need for caution, there was no signature.

However, if we assume that the communications addressed to the Central News Agency originated from the criminal, then this theory of a deranged Russian surgeon must be immediately demolished.
For the text was written in such distinctly American colloquial English that it could never be considered the work of a foreigner.
The phrases were crisp and effective precisely because of their vulgarity—no, their vulgarity made them all the more impactful.
While one could not entirely dismiss the possibility that this writing style was deliberately adopted to misdirect the investigation, such text could never be countenanced as the work of a foreigner—particularly one with formal education in English—and no doctor, however deranged, would write so illiterate a letter; indeed, even if he tried, he could never produce such crude writing.
What proved particularly astonishing was that the bloodstained postcard sent to the newspaper company had predicted the date and time of Jack’s next crime with uncanny accuracy.
On November 9th—the date written on that postcard—Kelly, alias Watts, was killed in Miller's Court on Dorset Street in the Spitalfields district.
This too might have been merely a prankster’s random guess that coincidentally aligned with events, but had those Goulston Street wall writings remained intact, comparing their handwriting would have easily determined the postcard’s authenticity.

This monstrous figure—unprecedented in the annals of global crime for his heinous and unfathomable nature—the abyssal terror surrounding him and the shudder-inducing mysteries had now become impossible to elucidate.
Who was this man called "Jack the Ripper," who had also called himself by that name?
Was he a murderous madman who harbored some special grudge against a certain type of woman?
Or was he indeed a mad doctor, as some in the London Metropolitan Police had theorized?
Or was he, as some theories suggest, a mad preacher driven by religious delusion?
All these—his true identity, his actual criminal methods, his motives—remained subjects of public speculation as he vanished into obscurity, leaving behind an eternal mystery.
Perhaps all of that already lay buried with him in some forgotten grave.
Indeed, this case—so continuously perpetrated, so profoundly shocking to society, and so enduringly perplexing that despite countless theories and hypotheses being advanced not only by the Metropolitan Police themselves but by every criminologist, every private detective agency, and every specialized crime reporter from newspaper companies both during the incidents and long afterward—remained utterly inexplicable in its failure to yield even a single ray of clarity regarding the actual crimes, truly standing unparalleled in comparison.
When it came to "Jack the Ripper," in London—no—in all of Britain, everyone knew of him.
If there was anyone in the world who directed interest and attention toward bloody events from any perspective whatsoever, that person would undoubtedly have heard this name.

A panic comparable to the city's famed thick fog still enveloped all of London.

The crime scene was, as previously stated, a bleak district within this vast metropolis—sandwiched between Aldgate, which encroaches upon the East End slum district dubbed the dustbin of the world, and Whitechapel Street, renowned for its dense Jewish population—where dark courtyards and filthy alleys intertwined in a labyrinthine network of decay.
During my stay in England, I specifically hired a guard and ventured into this area on several occasions, both during the day and late at night.
Truly, it was a den of urban evil so dangerous—or perceived as dangerous—that the term “exploration” applied without a shred of exaggeration.
Under the pretext of social work inspections or urban management research, by personally appearing at the Metropolitan Police and making a formal request, one could have a plainclothes detective familiar with that field assigned.
However, I have no intention now of recounting my experiences and observations in London's East End or depicting the various scenes I encountered there at night.
Yet being someone who knows these actual locations, I feel a peculiar personal fascination when writing this savage true crime story.
And this, I believe, must undoubtedly underpin the narrative with a degree of realism.

No Londoner could recall that late autumn without fresh horror.

It was the night of Friday, November 9th—still remembered as the final Ripper incident.

London was now fully cloaked in winter.
The fog that had clung all day shifted briefly to sleet at dusk, leaving that night a damp, stygian void—as if some viscous black fluid had seeped through the very air.
But from Fleet Street, all of the social affairs reporters and roving journalists from every newspaper company—summoned by late-night telephone calls—were now silently streaming toward Aldgate.
"The Blood Threat"—journalism had swiftly coined this name for the serial atrocities—would descend once more that night upon the East End’s crucible of poverty, filth, and depravity.
In streets shrouded in white fog, a police cordon so tight not even an ant could slip through had been drawn taut, and the sound of footsteps on wet pavement echoed furtively.
Among the passersby, all the men were police officers, plainclothes detectives, or newspaper reporters.
The women were prostitutes common to this neighborhood.
The women of the street, now too terrified to walk alone even when not conducting business, clustered in groups of three or four like sheep caught in snow, emerging from the fog only to dissolve back into it.
It was bleached-pale faces and staggering footsteps.
They would cry out in fear at every person they encountered on the street, terrified each might be the murderer.

It bears repeating.
Jack the Ripper professionally or as a pastime exclusively selected women belonging to this social stratum of prostitutes to slash apart.
He slashed—literally surgically incising from the genitals upwards and tearing apart.

Public outrage condemning police incompetence in the face of this midnight monster’s rampage had reached its zenith.
But I had previously stated that even before amateur citizens began clamoring, those in authority had already reached fever-pitch activity.
However, this fact offered no excuse for their failure to devise an arrest plan, and by this time disgraceful scenes were already unfolding within the Metropolitan Police—from Sir Charles Warren taking responsibility through resignation to numerous other debacles.
Sir Charles Warren’s resignation speech served as powerful stimulus that invigorated all police officers within his jurisdiction.
Police officers across London felt renewed strength as they threw themselves into investigating this Terrorist Jack.
Not only authorities but citizen volunteers collaborated in desperate efforts to capture this slaughterer of women haunting the streets—this night beast threading through darkness—as every conceivable strategy was devised and implemented.
All-night vigilante groups were organized.
Detective dogs had been relocated nearby while awaiting deployment.
In every dark intersection and poorly lit square facing houses’ second-floor windows held detectives keeping sharp-eyed watch throughout the night.

The special volunteer police force disguised themselves as women and scattered across the late-night town as decoys.
Every last nighttime passerby on Whitechapel Street underwent suspicion-based interrogations.
Suspects detained on charges of suspicious behavior, vagrants, and foreigners reached countless numbers nationwide.
Every item that appeared to be a clue was pursued to its ultimate conclusion, no matter how trivial.
But what awaited at every turn was inevitably miscalculation and disappointment.
Every town suspected of harboring this bizarre mad demon was subjected to house-to-house searches.
And so imperceptibly, the dragnet naturally tightened.
In truth, Jack had been witnessed in reality—engaged in conversation and scrutinized with grave suspicion—yet ill fortune perpetually favored him.
Despite standing upon painstakingly gathered clues and press reports, the law ultimately failed to reach his true identity and whereabouts.
Nor was this across any vast area.
Even when knowing one resident in this very district was surely the culprit, there a mysterious wall shielded the murderer while mocking all detectives.
Among superstitious folk emerged those attributing supernatural qualities to explain Jack away.
They claimed he was either ghoul or vampire bird—in any case, an otherworldly monstrosity moving unseen by human eyes.
This medieval-esque theory—dismissible with laughter today—was earnestly advocated during that terror’s peak as no mere jest.
From this alone could one gauge how utterly bizarre the affair became—how Jack’s actions embodied detective-fiction elusiveness made flesh.

The term "massacre" fell short of describing these continuous killings of streetwalkers within such a confined area.
The condition of the corpses—though each would later be explained alongside their respective crimes—proved so gruesome that autopsy physicians could scarcely bear to examine them, utterly defying conception as acts committed by anyone possessing ordinary nervous faculties.
This so-called extraordinary criminal left no trace with such cunning precision.
Naturally, any mentally ill person—indeed, anyone exhibiting even the slightest peculiarity—should by now have become neighborhood gossip and reached the detectives' ears.

As a particular feature of slum districts, all neighbors openly interacted with one another. If even a single "unfamiliar face" were lurking somewhere within, it would inevitably catch someone’s curious eye sooner or later, becoming at least one topic for pub meetings—what in Japan would be gossiping at communal wells, but here in Britain, particularly around London’s East End, it was no rare sight to see groups of married women gathering at taverns in broad daylight, venting their frustrations about their husbands over drinks—precisely the sort of rumor that would rise through those very pub meetings. Yet this complete absence of gathered intelligence was precisely what the police found most suspicious initially. That said, this fiend in human guise was not making any particular effort to conceal evidence or obscure footprints, nor deliberately delaying the discovery of corpses to hinder investigations. On the contrary, he was so remarkably careless—to a degree that seemed almost deliberate—that at times he even displayed a challenging attitude. As an example, as previously noted, in one such case—the Baanā Street incident—the discovered woman’s body, despite having her abdomen slashed open and entrails pulled out onto the courtyard stones, continued to pump out warm blood with a dull, rhythmic throb from the residual postmortem pulsations. Only a few seconds had passed since he delivered the final cut. A few seconds. At the instant the first discoverer rushed in, Jack had left the corpse—he must have been standing quietly in some dark corner at that moment, watching people's astonishment.

I have no desire to begin by reporting each individual crime—to engage in such banalities that would first provide readers with detective novel-esque intrigue.
Except when absolutely unavoidable, I intend to faithfully follow the records and first fully acquaint you gentlemen with the general internal and external circumstances surrounding the case from the outset.

Even if one were to kill a single cat or dog, the perpetrator would be drenched in considerable blood.
Moreover, this criminal not only killed women but performed dissection-like procedures on their corpses.
With each crime, logic dictated he must have been soaked from head to toe in fresh blood—limbs, clothing, everything saturated—as anyone would first surmise.
After slicing corpses to ribbons, where did he wash his hands and weapon?
How did he dispose of those blood-drenched garments?
How many accomplices sheltered him while providing such conveniences?
What manner of dwelling housed this murderer as he masqueraded among law-abiding citizens?
These questions formed the mystery's core then and remain so today.
As often recounted, the murders' savagery defied description—corpses bestially dismembered beyond recognition.
Moreover, each successive crime escalated in brutality until even steel-nerved observers recoiled at first glance.
While publication constraints forbid exhaustive details, each crime's methodology differed only marginally.
That every atrocity culminated in extraordinary horror remained utterly consistent throughout.
Needless to say, these were the deeds of one man—Jack the Ripper.
Furthermore, experts had conclusively determined his left-handedness through comprehensive analysis of blade wounds across multiple cases.

The victims were exclusively prostitutes wandering nocturnal streets.
They were confined to the very lowest stratum—the most destitute and wretched women even within that class.
Each corpse bore the unmistakable "exclusive trademark of terror."
In every case, their genitalia had been slashed open and hollowed out; hands thrust into these cavities to extract large intestines, internal reproductive organs, and other viscera, presenting a sight unbearable to witness.
During Dorset Street's autopsy, even police surgeons—alongside attending officers—reportedly fled to room corners to vomit when suddenly confronted with this horrific spectacle.
This systematic mutilation of victims' genitals formed the unifying hallmark across all Jack the Ripper's crimes—the true catalyst for a generation's terror.
He showed no preference among victims so long as they were streetwalking prostitutes.
At night he would approach women.
Or they would approach him.
Transactions concluded instantly.
Given this district's nature, prices proved pitifully low.
These wretched women voluntarily accompanied men to earn meager coins.
Most promptly lay supine on cobblestones in dark alleys, legs spread beneath their clients.
This posture—ideal for throat-slashing—seemed almost to invite the blade's descent.
Lower incisions followed.
Thus whether victims died before intercourse or after blade strokes became indeterminable—their lower bodies universally ravaged.
Yet experts unanimously deemed it most plausible these violations occurred immediately post-coitus.

Among the serial killings, many were committed outdoors.
The dark crossroads that formed that labyrinthine East End, the perpetually damp and malodorous alleys, the courtyards enclosed by low black buildings—these became the stages for his atrocities.
In Backs Row Street, a corpse was found slumped against a house's front steps.
The sole exception lay in Spitalfields district—the squalid barn-like room at Miller's Court on Dorset Street housing what would be called horror among horrors: the mutilated remains of Kelly, also known as Watts.

This fiend "Jack the Ripper" was seen face-to-face and spoken to by a single person throughout the entire sequence of events.

At that time—and it still exists today—there was a modest fruit shop at No. 44 Baanā Street.
A man named Matthew Packer ran a small business with his wife.
The narrow dirt-floored area was so crammed with fruits piled mountain-high that customers entering the shop became obstacles.
Both seller and buyers found themselves unable to move.
He devised a solution: closing the front door completely, cutting a small window into it to create a special setup akin to a train station or theater ticket booth, then settling inside to peer out through this window.
He was an eccentric individual who would handle customers through the window and hand out goods through it as well.

It was around 11:30 PM on Saturday, September 30th.

Packer was just preparing to close up shop when a male and female customer appeared outside the window.
The man was someone he had never seen before, but the woman was someone Packer knew well.
Long Liz—Elizabeth Stride—was a notorious delinquent girl in this area.

Packer seemed strangely preoccupied with Liz's companion—or perhaps the man himself possessed such striking features—for he later provided an exceptionally detailed account of the man's facial characteristics and attire, testifying to each particular with precision in the days that followed.

Age around thirty years old, height approximately five feet seven inches, broad-shouldered, his entire body giving a squarish impression. Dark skin. Clean-shaven, with an alert countenance. He wore a long black coat and dark brown felt hat, with a rapid and clipped speech.

In that brusque, imperious tone, Elizabeth’s companion spoke through the window:

“Hey.
“Give me half a pound of those grapes.”
“Three pence, then.”

It was a time when prices were low.

3

As Packer placed half a pound of grapes into a paper bag and offered it through the window, Long Liz—Elizabeth Stride—accepted them from his hand.
Like newlyweds or lovers, the man took Elizabeth's arm as they walked toward the nearby Socialist Club.
Given that this notorious prostitute—whom Packer knew well from these streets—had dragged along some unfamiliar man from God-knows-where to lurk in shadowed alley corners, one might imagine him watching their retreating figures with vulgar curiosity.
While most clients of East End streetwalkers were either young factory hands from the industrial quarter or sailors docked along the Thames, Packer couldn't place this man among those rough laboring types.
He pegged him instead for some clerk or junior office worker from Kamarsharu Street.
The couple had barely vanished into the Socialist Club compound—officially designated as the party's East End Branch Hall—when Elizabeth's mutilated corpse was found in its courtyard within twenty minutes.
Beside butchered remains that defied civilized comprehension lay Packer's grape-stained paper bag amidst scattered seeds and skins.
One could easily reconstruct how the victim had bantered with her killer while eating grapes—how their transaction concluded with Jack's blade ripping upward from between her legs to abdomen in fulfillment of his grisly epithet.
Like all Ripper victims, her groin bore atrocities surpassing rational horror—viscera seemingly yanked out by hand now streamed crimson between thighs to knees amidst pooled blood, a garish tableau.
Most tellingly, only the uterus had been surgically excised and removed—details matching prior accounts.
The murder site stood mere blocks from Packer's shop on Baanā Street, Jack's beastly audacity in selecting such proximity laying bare his pathological disregard for consequence.
That September night left no doubt: Elizabeth Stride's companion at Packer's stall was precisely the fiend whom Scotland Yard—nay, all London—would have clawed through stone with bare hands to apprehend.

This case remains what is termed a "labyrinthine cold case" that has furnished police authorities and criminologists with copious research materials to this day. Consequently, unlike typical detective stories or true crime accounts that anchor their interest in "how the criminal was apprehended," this narrative instead positions "why they were not apprehended" as its central axis.

As had been repeatedly detailed before, within a relatively small area, the Metropolitan Police of London—long hailed as peerless in thief-taking—had mustered their most elite detectives and cast a security net as dense as jungle foliage.
This net was penetrated at every juncture as these phantasmagorical crimes unfolded in succession, taunting the authorities with their brazen execution.
Moreover, the killer maintained an unfazed boldness akin to an open declaration of war.
What's more, despite the victims' social standing being rigorously consistent and even an eyewitness having come forward who had seen the murderer's face firsthand, it all concluded without ever witnessing his apprehension.
Needless to say, the Metropolitan Police's preparations had left no stone unturned.
In truth, the London Metropolitan Police of that era—counting among their ranks such luminaries as the great Brown and Mr. Forster—could be said to have been enjoying an unparalleled golden age in their history.
Now then—was Jack truly such a superhuman virtuoso of evasion and stealth? In reality, precisely the opposite held true—he was merely a complete amateur of grand proportions.
Indeed, it was precisely this clumsy, amateurish approach that paradoxically shackled the limbs of those battle-hardened professionals.
Yet in reality, all ultimately hinged on fortune—a simple matter of opportunity.
In this case, fortune and opportunity had—with perverse consistency—persistently favored the opposing side with unreasonable constancy.

Thus, Elizabeth Stride—the victim on Baanā Street—had fulfilled the crucial role of unknowingly revealing the killer's face to a man named Packer twenty minutes before her violent death, but as a result, this very Packer would later come to bear the brunt of intense condemnation.

However, there were reasons and responsibilities that made Packer being attacked unavoidable.

October 2nd—meaning only two days had passed since the Saturday night of September 30th when the Baanā Street incident occurred.
It was Monday.

It was nearly noon.
Packer recognized that the man from the previous night was passing in front of his fruit shop once more.

It was broad daylight.
His testimony had sparked the identification of that man as none other than Jack the Ripper, and now the situation was reaching a fever pitch of chaos and tension.
There could be no mistake in the image burned into his retina.
Above all, that "abnormally long black coat" served as a distinguishing mark, and Packer recognized it at a glance.
This time, he himself stated that it was just before noon.
Baanā Street possessed a modest shopping district even within the slums of the East End, its antiquated narrow thoroughfare teeming with people weaving through like threads on a loom.

To reiterate:
It was broad daylight.
Packer had no reason to be afraid.
Why did he not immediately dash out of his shop upon spotting the man, shout for help from neighbors and passersby, and at least surround him to await police intervention? What follows are his own words as Packer stated before the authorities regarding this very point.

“During lulls with no customers, it was my habit to vacantly gaze out at the street bustle through the ticket booth-style shop window.”
“Just then, some neighborhood vendors who had gone out early for lunch passed by laughing and chattering—it must have been around noon.”
“When I suddenly looked up, that man was approaching the pavement right in front of the shop wearing the same clothes as the other night.”
The fact that he was Jack the Ripper had been declared by all the newspapers—everyone in the neighborhood said so—and I myself felt certain of it at that moment. So when I spotted that man walking among the crowd of passersby—ah!
That’s him!
I thought.
He seemed to remember me too, for he glanced this way—though perhaps it was my imagination—with a threatening glare so sinister it chilled me to the bone.
“To speak truthfully, though I must appear shamefully cowardly, I was so startled my legs froze completely.”
“Moreover, there happened to be no one else in the shop at that moment—I couldn’t abandon my post to rush out—and all the while that bastard kept striding swiftly past.”
“I was frantic with anxiety.”
“So I beckoned a shoe-shine boy passing by shortly afterward—called him close with a lowered voice—and without explanation whispered for him to quietly follow that man and note which house he entered.”
“But then the man turned around.”
“When he saw me urgently whispering to the shoe-shine boy while staring his way—suddenly he bolted like a gunshot and leapt onto a tram racing down the tracks.”
“I came to my senses as if waking from a dream—stumbled out of the shop shouting—but by then the tram carrying that man had already vanished beyond the town’s edge.”
“It is profoundly regrettable and inexcusable—but this is the truth of it.”
“That this man was indeed the same customer to whom I sold grapes two nights prior admits not the slightest doubt.”

In essence, it was precisely because Packer saw this fiend amidst broad daylight—under clear skies and ordinary street crowds—that he felt in that instant an indescribable, overwhelming terror.
As he himself admitted—"to tell the truth, I was so startled I couldn’t move my legs at all"—we can surmise that this indescribable terror of broad daylight withered his nerves in an instant, stripping him of all capacity for snap judgments or swift action, leaving him momentarily rooted as if bound by invisible chains.
This psychological state warrants full understanding—it by no means proves Packer particularly cowardly—yet his subsequent claim that "there happened to be no one else in the shop besides me" and therefore "I couldn’t abandon the shop to rush out" must be judged a comical defense: demonstrating failure to grasp urgency, warped priorities, and excessive self-centeredness if not outright laziness.
That all London stood on tiptoe craving Jack the Ripper's capture was something Packer should have known better than anyone.
Moreover, he had just become Britain's newspaper sensation as the sole living soul to have seen the killer's face since September 30th.
There was also that duty.
Though shock at the suddenness was understandable, detectives and public alike gnashed teeth over what emergency measures might have been taken—until this frustration curdled into condemnation raining upon Packer.
This was natural enough, but some vented their bitterness through wild accusations—declaring Packer Jack's accomplice.
Had he let him escape deliberately? Or lied from the start with ulterior motives? No—Packer himself must be Jack! Such outrageous rumors spread with chilling plausibility.
Thus Packer—granted history's first and likely last chance to approach this prime suspect (nay, confirmed perpetrator)—through cowardice and stupidity let it slip through his fingers. At minimum here, one couldn't deny his deficiency in public-spirited zeal—the very qualities demanding he risk life aiding police. Being Britain, fierce debates erupted until pitifully, the fruitmonger had utterly lost his standing as a man.
But ultimately, post-facto words meant nothing.
All these reprimands for Packer's blunders proved but useless tears shed over spilled milk.
Opportunity departs centrifugally farther the more ideal it is.
And in most cases, never returns.

“The tram carried the criminal away beyond the town” was an artful turn of phrase.
Undeterred by this turmoil within turmoil, the crimes continued erupting intermittently thereafter—yet the criminal’s own shadow has remained vanished from that moment onward.

The predominant theory held that the purpose behind the first sensational crime had been the collection of uteruses.
Nor did it stem from superstition or religious obsession—yet neither was it merely a peculiar manifestation of collecting mania.
They claimed it was nothing less than a calculated commercial enterprise conducted for profit.
They took uteruses and sold them.
Uteruses were indeed marketable.
It remained astonishing—yet true—that livers, uteruses, and brain matter possessed commercial value in certain circles.
However, this specter—clad in a long black coat and dwelling in darkness—wielded his bloodstained blade exclusively against street prostitutes as if driven by some sacred vow.
If one sought to obtain uteruses, there would have been no reason to limit oneself to prostitutes—ordinary women would have possessed healthier and cleaner specimens far more suitable for commercial purposes—therefore it must be stated that this uterus trafficking theory did not apply in Jack the Ripper's case.
Admittedly, one could argue that targeting women of this sort had been the most expedient method for approaching unknown victims—hence explaining his apparent preference for prostitutes—and this explanation held some initial validity.
Yet Jack found no satisfaction in mere murder.
As if overflowing with vengeful intent demanding meticulous dismemberment, he indulged his carnal desires upon lifeless flesh even after death’s arrival.
Particularly in Kelly Watts’ case—brutally murdered within her Millers Court residence on Dorset Street—unlike outdoor crimes preceding it.
Here within four walls where time stretched endlessly before discovery’s interruption.
Her bedroom transformed into dissection theater.
Chest cavity voided.
Abdomen rendered unrecognizable.
When officers responding to reports breached this chamber of horrors.
The accumulated stench struck first.
Then vision’s assault—viscera strewn with slaughterhouse precision.
Men trained to violence recoiled as one.
Vomiting in unison at humanity’s defilement.
Contemporary newspapers howled “pinnacle of terror” through ink-stained pages.
Aghast editors declared this “human dignity’s utter annihilation.”

When matters reached this point, people began saying this could only be the work of a demon freely appearing and wreaking havoc.
Indeed, crimes of comparable brutality are scarcely to be found throughout the annals of global criminal history. Yet what demands particular attention here is, as has been stated from the beginning, the singular fact that this perpetrator exclusively murdered prostitutes in the vicinity of Whitechapel.
Is this not the critical peculiarity that hints at the motive behind these crimes?
Can we not discern some form of "message" within this specificity?
Indeed, Jack the Ripper used these characteristic crimes to declare an intention and address society.

His actions proclaimed something at full volume.
Within examining this “something” lay concealed the master key to unraveling the entire Ripper case mystery.
In any case, there could be no doubt that “Jack the Ripper” aimed—for reasons unknown—to shock and horrify not just the prostitutes of the East End but through them all of London: its populace and its very society.

In early winter London, days of smoke-laden fog persisted with relentless frequency.

Day and night, people were consumed by talk of Jack the Ripper.

Then, though the narrative briefly steps back, it was the early morning following the Berner Street incident.

4

After mobilizing all detectives from the Criminal Investigation Division and dispatching them to the scene under Mr. Forsyth's leadership, Chief Brown—remaining behind at Metropolitan Police headquarters as acting commander to maintain communications—was abruptly confronted by a young woman who rushed in.

Mr. Brown had been occupied receiving continual telephone reports from Mr. Forsyth at the crime scene, but upon learning the woman came regarding matters connected to the Ripper case, he promptly ushered her into his private office for questioning.

Ethel Lyons—as Brown had discerned at a glance from her attire and demeanor—was one of the prostitutes who worked the East End streets.
She was extremely agitated, and upon seeing Mr. Brown—"as if meeting her father for the first time in years"—suddenly tried to embrace him.
Mr. Brown, accustomed by profession to handling such emotional women of the streets, promptly adopted his practiced East End manner and casually drew the story from Lyons's lips.

It should be noted that while Brown had already received full details via telephone from Forsyth—who was at Berner Street—about Packer’s testimony regarding having seen the criminal the previous night, it was still early morning and not yet published in the newspapers, thus remaining entirely unknown to the general public.

Keeping this in mind, when listening to Lyons’ account, it went as follows.

Having heard that the Ripper had appeared again last night on Berner Street, Lyons mustered her resolve and came forward to recount her own experience—according to which, she had narrowly escaped death.

A few nights prior, as I walked through Whitechapel's Pinchin Street seeking clients per my custom, a man approaching from the opposite direction tipped his hat in greeting as though acquainted with me.
This constituted one standard camouflage tactic men employed when accosting street prostitutes.
Pinchin Street stood lined with dwellings of Jewish petty merchants, many houses boasting arched gateway entrances.
Though London remained shrouded in its perennial fog during that period, the moon hovered veiled within that haze that night, so we conversed sheltered beneath one such archway away from prying eyes.

“Won’t you take me somewhere quiet that you know?”

The man had said these words, she reported.
As he spoke, he shook his trouser pocket, letting the coins jingle audibly.
He was demonstrating that he indeed had money, just as he claimed.

There, Lyons testified that the man’s speech carried a distinct American accent.
Given that this came from a streetwalker accustomed to dealing with people from various countries, her testimony on this point should have been relatively credible—but Lyons had indeed asserted before Mr. Brown that the man was undoubtedly “either an American or someone who had spent considerable time in America.”

And even as he proceeded with the negotiation, the man—as if dreading anyone's approach—constantly swivelled his head to scan both sides of the street.
Amidst the Ripper case, prostitutes in this district quaked in terror.
Truth be told, Lyons would have preferred sheltering indoors rather than braving these nocturnal perils, but since abstaining meant ruination of her livelihood, she had slipped out fearfully.
Yet as she studied her companion's mannerisms now, something resembling a sixth sense screamed warnings through Lyons' being.
Persisting in observation revealed the man unfailingly turning shadowward whenever footsteps approached, meticulous in concealing his visage.
Lyons—terror mounting as she linked this behaviour to "Jack"—was weaving excuses to refuse him when fortune intervened: three familiar colleagues in her trade chanced by together.
Lyons bolted from the man and merged with their departing cluster.

Mr. Brown, having concealed Packer's description, asked Lyons what sort of man he had been.

"We have our own leads—a man around fifty, tall and thin?"
"A beard—"

He deliberately baited her with contradictory details to verify her account.
"No.
He was a young man in his early thirties.
Average height, not thin.
Sturdy build.
No, he had no beard."

There were elements that aligned with Packer’s testimony.

“He wasn’t wearing a coat, was he?”

“He was.
"It was a strangely long, black coat.”

Mr. Brown’s heart leapt within him.
From this moment onward, the “long black coat” secretly became the focus of the investigation—though according to Lyons, this “coat” spoke with an American accent.

The thorough brutality seen in cases like the murder of Kelly alias Watts in that Dorset Street hovel was thought to be something that no one—no matter how cruel, callous, or bloodthirsty—could possibly exhibit while wearing human skin, unless they were a beast or a madman.
There, the assumption that “Jack the Ripper” was undoubtedly a mentally deranged individual was first inevitably established.
That is to say, they posited it must be the work of either a lunatic who had escaped from a hospital or domestic confinement cell; someone discharged under the misdiagnosis of being fully cured; or perhaps one who had indeed temporarily recovered, left medical care, and later relapsed.
This was truly a shuddering notion—as though a wild beast had been loosed upon the metropolis—yet such crimes by lunatics released too soon from confinement were far from uncommon.
However, this was essentially lay speculation—for when the first Ripper incident erupted, the police had already focused on this angle from the outset, sending inquiry telegrams across Britain and indeed from continental Europe to South America to gather information about mental hospitals and track discharged violent patients. Yet ultimately, they obtained no promising leads beyond the aforementioned notification from Moscow.
That is to say, it was the world’s largest slum, where a motley assortment of people swirled and jostled like a tidal estuary at high tide, day and night.
Given that even the exact population remained unknown, there was no telling when or what kind of “beast” might be prowling unseen.
However, if Jack the Ripper were a madman, these crimes would have to be more capricious and less organized.
If they were even slightly mentally disturbed, they would inevitably leave some clue that would lead to their capture, no matter how cleverly they concealed their traces.
Of course, mental illness cannot be generalized—it encompasses various types and gradations. Yet synthesizing the facts observed across multiple cases, this Jack appears not to be a madman at all, but rather an ordinary person, or perhaps even someone of exceptional intelligence.
Moreover, even if he were mentally ill, he skillfully concealed those pathological traits, and as for determining what category and degree of patient he could academically be classified as, expert opinions remained divided on this point, ultimately reaching no consensus.
It was asserted by some authoritative criminologists that he must have been a type of sexual deviant—a paraphiliac who also exhibited episodes of epileptic fury—and this theory was primarily adopted to explain his motives.
Dr. Forbes Winslow, a psychopathologist of distinguished reputation, stated to visiting journalist Mr. Guy Logan his opinion that this murderer was likely an ordinary, mild-mannered citizen in everyday life, except during individual episodes of erotic frenzy.

“He returns home after committing a single crime—then come morning—upon awakening from that temporary frenzy—he retains not one shred of memory regarding his deeds from the previous night.”

Dr. Winslow said.

However, no matter how renowned the expert, one must acknowledge from the facts that this presents no small anomaly.
While one can affirm that the criminal was a monomaniac driven by a singular obsession to repeat these crimes, would an episodically deranged individual—such as Dr.Winslow postulates, devoid of volitional control like a sleepwalker—truly have wandered night streets concealing lethal weapons under clear murderous intent?
Moreover, the facts left no room for doubt in demonstrating that all of Jack’s actions revealed his crimes to have been meticulously planned from inception.
If we acknowledge that the postcard and letter bearing the signature “Jack the Ripper”—written in human blood and sent to the Central News Agency mentioned previously—were indeed penned by the killer rather than being some prank,—and in fact, as the case progressed, circumstances had increasingly compelled authorities to believe these communications originated from the true perpetrator—
To such an extent had his “declaration” been translated into faithful execution—he knew the precise vulnerabilities where he could locate his desired prostitute victims on specific streets, understood their transactional protocols for approach, and with each crime slipped through police cordons with flawless precision before vanishing.
The issue that arose again was his notorious “long black coat.”
The Ripper case had swept through all of London like a typhoon of fresh blood, centered in the East End.
Jack, like a street demon clad in a coat of dark enchantment, threaded through back alleys from shadow to shadow, moving with impunity.
Before his movements, even Scotland Yard stood utterly powerless.
At this juncture, it came to be perceived as a force of nature transcending human agency. Though initially trembling with fear and maintaining rigorous vigilance, Londoners gradually grew accustomed, viewing it with detached curiosity—and being humor-loving Britons, they soon transformed Jack into an absurd spectacle featured in newspaper cartoons, music hall revues, and masquerade balls with blithe nonchalance.
Yet enshrining this human beast as cultural entertainment proved morally corrosive—utterly irreverent—spawning tangential narratives that diverted from the investigation through opposition movements. Still, these portrayals—whether cartoons or costume balls—invariably clad Jack in that infamous “long black coat.”
So inseparable was this garment from its wearer.
One could easily imagine him removing the coat during his acts, setting it aside before donning it anew over blood-drenched clothes after completing his “surgery”—thus concealing gore while blending seamlessly into nighttime foot traffic.
For no one drenched in blood could traverse even short distances undetected—not even at midnight.
And for this purpose, black proved ideal—both in hue and length.
The East End never slept.
Streetwalkers seeking clients and men seeking streetwalkers formed perpetual nocturnal currents.
Though a peripheral district, it remained densely populated.
Moreover during that period, martial law-scale cordons were deployed nightly as officers wearied by fruitless investigations maintained desperate vigilance.
Suspicious interrogations were indiscriminately hurled at all passersby.

Those with even the slightest suspicion were relentlessly arrested.
The sheer number caught in that dragnet alone was said to be staggering.
Yet through it all slithered one man—fresh from slaughtering his victim, mutilating the corpse, reveling in gore like some creature oozing from a paintbox—sole survivor slipping through this tightening mesh unchallenged.
No—perhaps challenged once—but never scrutinized with suspicion sharp enough to pursue.
This singular fact alone would become known as the crown jewel of mystery in the Ripper case.
While thousands endured street-stops and blistering interrogations—forced to produce papers and submit to bodily searches—the lone quarry they sought alone escaped ever brushing against the law’s probing tendrils—what bitterest irony!

5

It was now generally believed that Jack the Slasher's objective had been to curse all prostitutes in the Whitechapel district over some grievance and plot their indiscriminate wholesale slaughter. Burning with hatred and resentment to sate his vengeful desires, he was said to have known no satiety in bloodshed. What had been the root cause? At this point, nothing more than mere conjecture could be permitted regarding its fundamental origin. Jack had likely contracted malignant syphilis from one of the prostitutes in that area—a contamination that plunged his life into ruinous mire. At the very least, he must have felt this way—that his despair-fueled rage, utterly irrational, drove him to blindly and recklessly wield obsession's blade, compelling him to adopt those cruel means of retaliation. One of the East End's pitiable prostitutes—the most fearsome vector of that viral scourge—had physically and mentally devastated Jack's entire existence. Within his disease-ravaged mind, the unjust logic that one individual's sin should be borne by all may have fermented and grown with dreadful naturalness.

Meanwhile, a constant stream of information from overseas continued to reach the Metropolitan Police in London.

Somewhat prior to this, in North America’s Texas, a series of crimes closely resembling the Ripper case had occurred from winter to early spring. However, while not as thoroughly savage as those in London, similar genital dissections had been performed on the corpses. The victim was specifically a Black prostitute unique to that region.

The perpetrator was said to be a young Jewish man of foreign birth, but of course nothing else was known about him, and he remained at large. When the Ripper case reached its peak in London, the influential Texas newspaper Atlanta Constitution published exhaustive details of these Black prostitute murders, highlighting their similarities and asserting that Jack the Ripper must be this Texas criminal who had crossed to England to resume his activities. Regardless of the theory’s validity, shortly after the Ripper turmoil subsided in London, in early summer of the following year, a similar demonic rampage struck terror into Managua City.

Managua City is the capital of the Republic of Nicaragua in Central America.

Simultaneously with the incident's occurrence in that city, the London Metropolitan Police immediately contacted the local police and obtained a detailed report on the case. According to documents, all aspects—the crime's circumstances, the method of "slashing" genitals, and the density of mystery surrounding the perpetrator—matched every detail of Jack the Slasher's modus operandi, naturally giving rise to the theory that Jack had crossed the Atlantic and emerged in Central America after his final London crime.

At first glance this appeared a forced connection, but upon reconsideration seemed entirely plausible.

Whether Nicaragua's criminal truly was London's slaughterer Jack—since even in Nicaragua the perpetrator remained uncaught—any assertion, whether affirming or denying, stayed firmly within pure conjecture.

When crimes acquire such mystique, absurd anecdotes inevitably attach themselves. Criminals particularly appear to share this strange psychological tendency—when cornered, they seek to glorify and embellish themselves as heroes.

For some time afterward, those facing execution in unrelated cases kept theatrically declaring "I am Jack!" as if reciting from some official script, much to the authorities' frustration.

Initially the public buzzed with excitement, but as self-proclaimed Jacks proliferated like some morbid fashion trend, people soon stopped taking any claims seriously.

However, the theory that the young Jewish man from Texas was Jack continues to be regarded with considerable weight among Ripper case researchers.
Lyons also insisted she had detected an American accent in the man's speech that night, and that opening phrase "Dear Boss" in the letters and postcards addressed to the Central News Agency was unmistakably American slang—one could definitively say such wording would never be used in Britain.
Yet Packer alone stated he had detected nothing suggestive of America in the customer's speech when selling grapes—though his interaction lasted mere moments, and since voices and intonation can be consciously disguised, his testimony on this point remained unreliable.

Moreover, there was another point—disclosed later—relating to the time of the 29 Hanbury Street incident.
A single button lay beneath the corpse's back area—likely torn from the assailant's clothing by victim Annie Chapman during their struggle.
On its reverse was stamped a small trademark reading "H&Q".
The London Chamber of Commerce undertook examination of this button at the Metropolitan Police's request.
Before long, the H&Q button was identified as a product of Hendricks & Quentin Company in Chicago, USA.
Relying on this sole and nebulous clue—scarcely worthy of being called evidence—though other factors might have existed, Inspector Andrews raced from police headquarters that same day and embarked on a New York-bound vessel from Southampton.
How earnest their efforts were could be understood from this episode alone.
Yet as this button inquiry too seemed to yield nothing, Mr. Andrews had returned empty-handed to London before long, his arrival unnoticed.

Years later, a story emerged of a British madman—once a fairly renowned surgeon—who had died in a Managua mental hospital and on his deathbed confessed to being the true perpetrator of both the Ripper and Nicaragua cases, stirring up a public that had nearly forgotten into renewed uproar under the name “Jack.” Of course, it was nothing but complete nonsense.
At least the authorities dismissed it with a laugh.
To begin with, the very notion of a "Madman’s Confession"—what glorious nonsense!