October of 1888, at first glance, would look to be a nothing month in my career, as I went on hiatus and the East End experienced thirty-plus days without a w***e"s murder. To the uninformed observer, it may have seemed as if good ol" Jack the Ripper had lost his anger or his nerve. Nothing was further from the truth. I was waiting… patiently.
nothingDon"t imagine I was happy or bored. Activity abounded; plenty to make Jacky saucy.
The irritations had mounted. The police, out searching in force, with extra patrolmen transferred into the East End from districts all over England. The vigilante mobs, galoshes in place against the rain, toting clubs from street to alley. Bloodhounds at the ready. Newspapers demanding a microscopic search of the doorknobs, bricks, and windows of every home in
