The fourth meeting of the Stride Inquest, on Friday, 5 October, held nothing new and nothing of interest. No word from any of the witnesses from whom I wanted to hear. I had to know something, anything, about where I stood.
By Saturday, I could take it no more. I couldn"t breathe in the house. So I went out – into the carnival.
The streets of the East End were filled to overflowing with tourists begging for an eyeful of, at least, their fantasy of what the murder scenes looked like. Everywhere, local entrepreneurs did all they could to exploit those morbid curiosities.
Cabs and omnibus carriages shunted tourists hither and yon about the murder districts; from George Yard to Buck"s Row in the east of Whitechapel; down to Dutfield"s Yard in Berner Street in the parish of St George-in-the
