As I turned yet another page in the grim story that was unfolding before me, the words of my great-grandfather were once again lying in wait for me, as before, tucked tightly between the pages of the Ripper’s journal. The explanation for his not having responded to the Rippers letter was staring at me as I began to read incredulously his latest addition to the journal.
My son,
My son,
It is well after the fact that I sit and write this note, which I hereby append to the awful tale you are now reading. As you know, events in London took a terrible turn in the weeks of Autumn,1888, and, after my dear friend Sir William was spoken to at length and on various occasions, it was of course my turn. As you know, the police interviewed me, in addition to any number of eminent (and not so eminent
