Excerpt

I continued to spread my distinctive eating habits about, never killing twice on the same night or at the same location. London was large and there was never a lack of walking restaurants from which to choose. I needed to feed only every few months during the last few years, so my actions were isolated incidents.

I liked the Whitechapel district for it offered variety. During the day I could associate with the well-to-do merchants of the area, while the upper class that visited my gallery entertained me with their snobbishness and arrogant ways. The locals, for their part, went about their daily affairs unaffected by the daylight visits of the aristocracy, or the night time activities of the denizens of the dark.

During the day the streets were alive with traffic, both pedestrian and coach. People moved about freely, safety was not an issue. Women shopped, men transacted business, and children played casually, with their peers on cluttered walkways. What night brought to the area was another matter, for at night the area was a veritable smorgasbord of drink, debauchery, and vice. Most of the local dwellers stayed in their homes minding their own business behind drawn shutters and locked doors. It was the rich, the bored, those seeking thrills and excitement that poured into the area. Upstanding citizens looking for something they couldnt find at home or do during the light of day. As the sun sank, so did their moral fiber.

I enjoyed the night. I still had my flat and building on Jefferson, but I now kept a residence above the gallery on Church Lane. At night I would frequent the pubs and private clubs of the area. My clothes, manner, and demeanor were different from those of the day. Even my name was different. I was Albert. Tarts and streetwalkers knew me by name and greeted me, even though I had little contact with them on a professional basis. As I have mentioned, except for my feelings for Angeline, sex without feeding meant nothing. Still the trollops greeted me.

Evening Albert.

Anything up tonight, Albert?

Albert, want to sample my wares? Theyre fit for a king...or a prince.

Fit for a prince? Yes, I was a mystery man. Some thought me the son of a Duke or Lord. Others saw me as a wealthy merchant. Some even believed me to be Prince Albert, nephew of the Queen, out in disguise. Out looking for action, of which the Queen would not approve. I dressed well, but conservatively, and always wore a long black coat. More and more my old cravings were returning. They came on with a vengeance the night of August 9th 1888, and I started a streak of killings that would go down in history and make me both famous and infamous. Most accounts only mention the last five victims, but my spree actually began twenty two days earlier than most give me credit for.

I had had a most enjoyable evening, drinking ale and teasing whores in several pubs along Charlotte and Oxford streets, and was beginning my solitary walk back to my flat. Always taking a different route, and being vigilant that no person too curious for their own good followed, I moved north along the dark side of Bakers Row toward Hansbury where I planned taking it to Brick Lane. From there it was a short walk t to Church Lane and my flat.

Most nights, especially in the late hours, Bakers Row is quiet and empty, but on that warm and humid night I was not the only soul on the street. A young girl stepped from the shadows of the single story building housing the law offices of James Wilcox, a less than honest and upstanding attorney. Like most of the buildings in the area it was covered with grime and soot from the constant burning of coal and coal oil. The girl was equally encrusted with dirt and soot. She approached and offered me her body. When I declined she pulled a short knife from her bag and demanded, Your money, or your pecker. I said nothing and did not move. I said your money. She moved closer, always waving the knife toward my crotch. She was nervous, maybe even scared. Holding out her open left hand while now pushing the knife against my stomach, she again shakily demanded, Your money! Are a few pounds worth more than your private parts?

I laughed. Indeed not. But I ask you, are a few pounds worth your young life? She blanched a little whiter with that question and...