With shaking hands, and with a grim sense of inevitability about what was about to come, I settled myself as comfortably as I could for what I assumed would be the conclusion of the tragedy that had befallen my family so many years ago. Barely able to contain my feelings of impatience and fascination, I began to read my great-grandfather’s final entry in the hideous secret journal of Jack the Ripper.
January 1889
January 1889
Jack the Ripper is dead! There will be no more killing, no more butchery of the innocent, though in putting an end to the beast who stalked the streets of our city I have sullied myself for all time, and only God in Heaven can be my judge. I could no longer bear the torment of seeing him in the state to which he had been reduced, both by his illness, and by my own
