Jack the Ripper

In the early hours of Friday morning, August 31st 1888...

a penniless prostitute was slaughtered on a London Street.

Her name was Mary Ann Nichols.

With the death of this one woman began...

a reign of terror so horrifying that the world remembers it still.

Jack the Ripper.

- Whitechapel! - Whitechapel, get yer Star!

Fresh flowers. Penny a bunch, penny a bunch.

Fresh flowers.

- Whitechapel. - Get yer Star.

Get yer Star. Murder! One penny. Get yer Star.

Murder in Whitechapel.

- Get yer Star. - There you are, son.

One penny. Star special. Murder in Whitechapel.

Get the Star.

Murder in Whitechapel.

Get the Star.

Eighty thousand prostitutes.

Disgrace to the nation.!

- Crime is now a way of life? - It's all true, Mr O'Connor.

This is a newspaper, not a scandal sheet.

How many copies did we sell last week?

And how many are we selling today?

It's a murder, Bates, that's all. Just a murder.

But it could become a crusade. Don't you see?

A crusade? Women like that get killed every month. Jerry!

Exactly, that's my point. It's a jungle down there.

Poles, Frenchmen, Jews. Pouring in from everywhere.

It's a wonder there's not been a killing everyday.

One spark and the whole East End of London goes up.

- Just like that. - And you're the spark, is that it?

- Jerry! - Look...

- I've just been to Scotland Yard. - Jerry!

And they're putting Abberline on the case.

- Yes, Mr O'Connor? - Shut up.

They're doing what?

Putting Inspector Fred Abberline on the case.

For a dead whore?

Abberline's the best detective they've got.

What's going on?

The East End of London is out of control...

Mr O'Connor. You know that.

The police are losing their heads.

Aren't they?

- Good morning. - Good morning.

Morning Sarge.

- Morning, Pete. - George.

- Where's Abberline? - He's downstairs.

Dawson!

Hello, Bill. Where's Inspector Abberline?

Number five, Sergeant. Number five.

- George? - Yeah.

Chief Superintendent Arnold wants to see you.

Arnold?

Does he know where I am?

No, but he's about the only policeman in Scotland Yard who doesn't.

Better read that.

- "Have police lost control?" - Yeah.

George.

Get me a razor.

Well, what else did old boot-face have to say?

Detective Chief Superintendent Arnold thinks I need a rest.

A rest? Never heard it called that before.

Anyway, I like Whitechapel.

Good. 'Cause one day they're gonna send you back here...

permanently.

- End of a brilliant career. - Don't start, George. Not now.

Why d'you do it, Fred?

We all like a drink now and again, but give you a bottle and you're...

All right, George, you've had your say, now leave it alone.

This it it. Bucks Row.

- Put it back, Whizzer. - I only wanted to see what time it was.

Half past four.

What're you doing, Sonny?

Well, I'm not 'avin' tea with the Queen, am I?

- I'm washing the blood away. - This is Inspector Abberline...

from the Yard. Stand up straight, son.

Sorry, sir, urm, it's Inspector Spratling's orders, sir.

Keep the place clean.

You know what that was, don't you?

Evidence.

Is that why you're here, Inspector?

Bringing in Scotland Yard because the local boys can't cope. Is that it?

- And who might you be? - Bates.

Benjamin Bates, with The Star.

Why is Scotland Yard so interested in a local murder?

My readers would love to know.

Busy Joe, can you come here a minute, please?

Enter.

Chief Superintendent Arnold.

Shut the door.

Whose idea was it to send Abberline to Whitechapel?

I'm in charge of the Detective Department, sir, the choice was mine.

How many more articles like that...

do you think Commissioner Warren can withstand?

Last year there were riots in Trafalgar Square.

People were injured, the Commissioner got the blame.

Bloody Sunday. The Prime Minister hasn't forgotten, Mr Arnold.

What is this to do with Abberline, sir?

I gather he's still drinking. And heavily, too.

You have chosen a drunk for the job, Mr Arnold.

Sit down.

Murder. Well, I suppose that's one way of putting it.

As you can see, the killer severed the throat...

right back to the vertebrae...

then removed the uterus, the kidneys.

The poor woman wasn't just... Murdered. She was plundered.

Dr Lewellyn, last night, according to this report...

you said she'd been "operated on".

What do you mean? An abortion?

- No, no, nothing like that. - But you said, er, "operated"?

Well it's not just a stabbing, is it?

A police surgeon in Whitechapel sees enough of those, I can promise you.

I was here for fourteen years, Doctor.

Well, the flesh has been torn; Ripped apart with great force.

- And yet... - And yet what?

Well, the cuts are quite deliberate.

- Almost clinical. - Was he a surgeon like yourself?

Surgeons save lives, Inspector, they do not destroy them.

No member of my profession would make incisions like that.

There's no medical purpose in them, you see.

But he knew the workings of the human body? You'd go that far?

Where to find the organs, yes, but that doesn't make him a doctor.

- Any butcher would know as much. - Thank you, Dr Llewellyn.

I won't keep you, it's been a long day.

Doctor? I see the inquest is tomorrow.

That's right.

Well, goodnight.

Goodnight, sir.

Inquest tomorrow. How do we present evidence by tomorrow?

We can't.

You mean we're not meant to?

I don't know yet, but something stinks.

And it's not just this place.

George. First thing tomorrow...

I want a list of every doctor, vet, butcher, feldsher...

anyone who makes a living with a knife, within a five-mile radius.

I wanna know where they were last night, and why.

What about the moneylenders, the pimps, the bully boys?

And them too. And find out about our friend, the Doctor.

Him, Llewellyn? He's a local police surgeon!

Just read that duty officer's report.

- Evenin'. - Evening.

Evening.

According to that, he examined that girl twice last night.

- Twice? - Yeah.

And the first time, he only found a cut throat.

- Cut throat, she was gutted. - Yeah.

I think we'd better find the man who wrote this report.

Inspector John T. Spratling.

- Be it ever so humble... - There's no place like home.

- Hey, what's going on? - Looking for a policeman.

Very funny. Local inspector, name of Spratling.

You've found him. Who are you?

Sergeant Godley, sir, Scotland Yard.

Scotland Yard!

Well, well well.

A real detective from Scotland Yard...

come to tell us how to do our job, Kerby.

Sergeant Godley, is it?

Dear, dear. Sergeants round here make the tea.

What do inspectors do?

Abberline.

We'll need a clean office, George. That one's filthy.

Sergeant Kerby, is it?

George takes sugar in his tea, I don't.

Hello, Jack. How's the collection business?

Still making a profit, or shouldn't I ask?

What are you doing back here, Abberline?

The Nichols case.

- The what? - Mary Ann Nichols.

Common prostitute, murdered last night in Bucks Row...

examined by Doctor Lewellyn in your presence sixteen hours ago.

Half her insides missing. Ring a bell?

Er, there was also some bruising along the lower edge of the jaw...

on the right side of the face.

On the left side, about an inch below the jaw...

there was an incision terminating three inches below the right jaw.

Thus. This incision, about eight inches in length...

was made with with such force that it completely severed...

all tissues down to the vertebrae.

Why are you letting this go on? We're not ready for it.

I want to see who's here.

Dr Llewellyn, those were not the only injuries inflicted on the body.

No, sir, the abdomen had been cut open from the base of the ribs...

down the right side. Our young reporter has found a friend.

Bates from The Star. He was at the murder site.

I know. Who's that with him? Big one with the hat.

- Looks like an artist. - Or an anarchist. Neither of 'em are local.

Doctor Llewellyn, would these injuries imply a... medical knowledge?

In my opinion the organs could not have been removed...

in the way they were without at least some...

anatomical knowledge of the viscera.

Doctor?

Order, please.

- Order. - It's true.

Mr Baxter, I am the detective in charge of this case...

and I'd like to request an adjournment.

You have further evidence then, Inspector?

I've had less than twenty-four hours, sir, and I have no evidence.