The Autobiography of Jack the Ripper (21 page)

In nearly everything the simplest is the best. In art, in invention; in the conduct of life and—it has now occurred to me—in the conduct of death. Mrs. Hamlett's gas-fire is alight; her door and window are shut. All I have to do is to wait until she is soundly asleep—and the whiskey will insure the soundness—descend cautiously to the hall and turn off the main gas supply. I shall wait for a few minutes and then turn it on again, after which I shall go peacefully to bed.

The scheme is so simple that I could almost convince myself that it will not be a murder; at the most a sort of teetotal murder. The mere turning on and off of a tap—as though in absent-mindedness! It is so simple and yet so effective that I feel sure some writer of detective fiction must already have thought of it. But, if so, I have not read his book, and I claim the original invention of the idea.

And who, at the inquest, will remember that a gas-fire goes out when the main-tap is turned off; and that the gas begins to escape when the tap is turned on again? Or would pursue the idea even if it occurred to him?

I am now completing this manuscript; I know the last chapter will show signs of haste, and may appear slovenly to the fastidious reader, but I am anxious to finish it before embarking upon my last important enterprise. I have read somewhere that “the supreme gift of the artist is the knowledge of when to stop”; I make no claim to being an artist, but I do know when to stop. Shall I spoil a good, decisive climax by wandering on into an unnecessary description of the inquest, of my after-thoughts, and so meander aimlessly on until my writing peters out like a trickle of water which gradually dies away into the dust? No; I will finish this manuscript to-night, and seal it up; then I am less likely to be tempted to embellish or extend it.

At this eleventh hour I am conscious of an uncomfortable lurking doubt as to whether I am not, after all, acting hastily. I cannot disregard the possibility—the very slight possibility—that my instinctive feeling that Mrs. Hamlett knows who I am is wrong. Supposing the whole thing is due, on my part, to that which the conventional person calls “conscience”? Supposing she had read but a trivial and unrevealing section of my manuscript? Supposing she really has had neuralgia? Supposing, in short, that the whole thing is due to my imagination? I cannot think that it is; I cannot convince myself that it is, and yet I am just conscious of that little doubt.

However, the risk is too great for me to carry; I must give myself the benefit of the doubt, for is not self-preservation the first law of nature?

And, writing of “nature” reminds me that here is something which will confirm by actual test the truth of my belief regarding the malevolence of that Destiny which shapes our ends. If, contrary to my opinion, we are, individually and in the mass, watched and guarded by a benevolent Providence, surely one might expect some kind of miraculous hitch to my proceedings; Mrs. Hamlett will not be “allowed to” succumb to my evil machinations. “Right and truth shall prevail” says the righteous man, entirely unconscious of the teaching of history. Well, let right and truth prevail here. Let Providence step in and confound me; the installation of the Gas Company is doubtless efficient, but surely Providence could get over that difficulty!

But I am getting excited and, perhaps, a trifle incoherent. The time is near and I must make an end. I shall now seal up this manuscript and place it, as I originally intended, in a second envelope addressed to my executor. I shall lock it in the safe, and there let it remain. After that I shall take my rubber-shod crutch and creep softly, softly down the stairs. Am I sorry for what I must do? I do not know, I am too excited. I may be sorry tomorrow; who knows? But of the outcome of this night's work I am confident; and in that confidence I append to this manuscript the one word: Finis.

J. W. Carnac

1
In the original manuscript, this read Mrs Carnac.

A Coroner's Charge to a Jury

Well, gentlemen, you have heard all the available evidence and it now remains for you to decide how this unfortunate gentleman came by his death and to return a verdict accordingly.

As to the identity of the remains: I think you will agree that no doubt exists that they are those of Mr. James Willoughby Carnac. I need not point out to you that direct identification has been impossible; it has been your very unpleasant duty to view the remains, and you know that they are quite unrecognizable. But in this matter of identification you have the following to guide you: Mrs. Hamlett, the landlady of the house, has told us that at the time of the fire the only occupants of the house were herself, the maid Minnie Wright and Mr. Carnac. Mr. Carnac was not saved. This, alone, renders it practically certain that the charred remains are those of Mr. Carnac; and it is supported by the evidence of Dr. Short who has stated that the remains are those of a man of approximately Mr. Carnac's build and with a right leg missing. And we have been told by Mrs. Hamlett and Minnie Wright that Mr. Carnac had lost a right leg.

Now as regards the cause of death. Mrs. Hamlett has given her evidence very clearly and directly, but I will just run over the main points again. It appears that on the evening of February the third Mrs. Hamlett was suffering from a cold, on account of which she retired early, Mr. Carnac having kindly mixed her a glass of grog.

Mrs. Hamlett drank the mixture and retired to her bed-room on the ground-floor; she found the room was unduly hot, as the gas-stove had been alight for some time, and she turned the gas out. It then occurred to her that Mr. Carnac's bed-room would be extremely cold; she passed upstairs, lit his gas-fire, closed the door and returned to her own room.

Now up to that point, gentlemen, the evidence is perfectly clear. Mrs. Hamlett states quite emphatically that she lit Mr. Carnac's gas-fire; that it was burning at about half the full strength when she left the room. You have seen that lady and heard her give evidence, and if your impression is similar to my own you will agree that she is not the sort of person who would carelessly turn on the gas and leave the room without lighting it; in fact it is a little difficult to see how any sane person could do such a thing. We can take it, I think, that the gas-fire was burning, and that it ultimately went out. It is possible, of course, that the flame was turned rather lower than Mrs. Hamlett thought, and that it “popped out” as the girl Minnie Wright suggested. In fact that seems the only reasonable supposition. We have most of us had experience of gas-fires and we know that such things do infrequently occur. However, from whatever cause—a draught or a “back-fire”—it would seem that the gas-fire went out, and of course the gas would at once begin to escape and would gradually fill the room—you will recall Mrs. Hamlett's evidence to the effect that the windows were closed.

Now we know, from the same witness, that it was the habit of Mr. Carnac to light himself up to bed with a candle in a tall brass candlestick; for although electric-light was laid on, the switch controlling the staircase light was situated in the hall, and it usually fell to Mr. Carnac, as the last member of the establishment to go to bed, to turn out this light. This is perfectly clear, and explains the presence of the brass candlestick beside Mr. Carnac's charred body.

I think, gentlemen, you will easily visualize the train of events. Mr. Carnac passes upstairs with a lighted candle, places the candlestick on the floor beside the door—remember that he was a one-legged man; one hand would be engaged with his crutch, and he would have to put down the candlestick before he could open the door—and when he did fling open the door the gas with which the room was filled ignited, causing a terrific explosion and the subsequent fire. And there can be little doubt that the fierceness of that fire—sufficient to gut the upper part of the house—was, to some extent at least, due to the bursting of a large bottle of petrol which, as Mrs. Hamlett tells us, Mr. Carnac had been using for the purpose of cleaning a picture, and which he had left in his bed-room.

I wish we could think, gentlemen, that this unfortunate man was killed by the force of the explosion; unhappily the evidence suggests only too clearly that he was endeavouring to drag himself towards the staircase when he was overcome by the flames. But I need not dwell too long upon that very horrible circumstance.

There is only one small point, and I need barely refer to it. Mrs. Hamlett told us that for several days previous to the disaster Mr. Carnac's manner had become—“peculiar” was, I think, the word she used. It appeared to her that he was perhaps suspicious or upset, and she thought this might be due to his resenting her discovery of the fact that he was writing a novel. This may, of course, have been so; one cannot always estimate the feelings of an elderly person. But, whatever the cause, I do not think we need consider this change in Mr. Carnac's manner. It might possibly be suggestive were there any suspicion of suicide in this case; but no such suspicion is warranted by the circumstances surrounding the tragedy.

I think that is all, gentlemen; and now perhaps you will let me have your verdict.

This manuscript was found among the effects of a man who died in the early 1930s. In a brief introduction called “Explanatory Remarks,” he claims to have known Carnac and been appointed his executor, and that he had received the manuscript along with Carnac's effects. It was “in a sealed packet and attached to the exterior of this was a letter” addressed to him in which Carnac asked that it be sent to a specified literary agent, who were rare beasts back then. Fearing that compliance with this request might create problems with the probate authorities, the man opened the package and read the contents. Some particularly revolting material was apparently removed, but otherwise it was intended that the manuscript be presented to the literary agents as requested. Whether this was actually done, and the manuscript returned, or whether something stopped Carnac's wishes being complied with is unknown.

Was this story even remotely true? Or is the author of the explanatory remarks, this supposed friend and executor of James Willoughby Carnac, really the author of the whole manuscript, using the well-established literary device of claiming it to have been a bequest to give his narrative verisimilitude? If so, might he have been Jack the Ripper? Fortunately, he could not. Not unless Jack the Ripper was a babe in arms, which could explain how Jack the Ripper escaped detection but is too ridiculous even for a subject which feeds off ridiculous suggestions, so at least one reputation will remain intact and unsullied. But was he the actual author of the manuscript?

On the face of it, it is about as likely as Elvis living on Mars. The man who wrote that introduction was Sydney George Hulme Beaman, a sometime actor, an artist, and a superb and distinctive illustrator. Almost forgotten today, he was once as famous as Enid Blyton. He enjoyed an all too brief personal celebrity and a lasting immortality as the creator of Larry the Lamb and all the characters of Toytown.

All of Hulme Beaman's literary output was for children, so writing a novel about Jack the Ripper—writing
anything
about Jack the Ripper—would have been an extraordinary literary diversion, perhaps as shocking in its way as discovering that Enid Blyton secretly penned explicit sex novels. So this book is extraordinary and immensely valuable even if it is a novel by Hulme Beaman.

And it would be an extraordinary and immensely valuable novel even if it wasn't written by Hulme Beaman because it must surely be an early attempt to tell a crime story from the criminal's perspective, and as an attempt at character analysis it is rather perceptive, avoiding all the almost stereotypical motives suggested at the time, such as religious fanaticism, an insane doctor, or an escapee from a lunatic asylum, and instead presenting James Carnac as a man who kills because he likes it, an image far more in keeping with what we know about serial killers today.

Carnac is also an unlikeable man, attracted by the macabre and grotesque, cruelly cynical, and with an acid-tongued sense of humor, as revealed in his dedication—“Dedicated with admiration and respect to the retired members of the Metropolitan Police Force in spite of whose energy and efficiency I have lived to write this book”—and occasionally encountered elsewhere in the book.

—

Sydney
George
Hulme
Beaman

A person is the product of many influences, and Sydney George Hulme Beaman had an interesting family heritage, one that was normal to the point of being staid, yet also bohemian and artistic.

His great-grandfather was George Hulme Beaman, a doctor who enjoyed an extensive private practice and was parochial surgeon to St. Paul's in London. He was one of the founders of the New Equitable Life Assurance Company and for many years was its deputy chairman. He was also chairman of the renters and debenture holders of the Drury Lane Theatre. Today he is chiefly remembered, if he is remembered at all, for being called by the police on November 5, 1831, to examine the body of a fourteen-year-old, fair-haired, gray-eyed boy.

The boy's body had been brought by John Bishop and James May to the dissecting room of King's College with the intention of selling it to the anatomy department. There was a severe shortage of cadavers suitable for the study and teaching of anatomy, and a fresh corpse could fetch as much as twelve guineas. There were rules about where the bodies could come from, but a blind eye was generally turned to the corpses of the recently dead that had been dug up from their graves. The gangs who undertook this gruesome but profitable work were politely known as resurrectionists, or more commonly as body snatchers. Bishop and May would later confess to having stolen and sold between five hundred and one thousand corpses in a career lasting twelve years.

On this occasion, the suspicions of the anatomy demonstrator, Richard Partridge, were aroused by the freshness of the body, which he thought showed no signs of having been buried. He called his superior, Herbert Mayo, professor of anatomy, who agreed that the police should be called. Bishop and May were arrested, and later so were two other members of the gang, Thomas Williams and Michael Shields. They were charged with murder. They had in fact taken the boy from the Bell in Smithfield to a house in a part of the East End known as Nova Scotia Gardens, where they had drugged him with rum and laudanum and then drowned him in a well. The boy was later tentatively identified by the police as an Italian lad named Carlo Ferrari, but Bishop and Williams eventually admitted that he was a cattle drover from Lincolnshire, name unknown.

George Hulme Beaman was called upon to examine the body of the boy, concluded that the body had never been buried, and deduced from the empty chambers of the boy's heart that death had been very sudden and almost certainly from a blow to the neck. Hulme Beaman had made a particular study of death from spinal injuries; he had killed numerous animals by hitting them on the back of the neck, and afterward he dissected them to observe the results, so he considered himself something of an expert. Partridge and Mayo, who joined him in conducting the postmortem in the first-floor room of the tiny watchhouse in St. Paul's graveyard, concurred, and the police minutely searched Nova Scotia Gardens, finding clothes from numerous other victims.

The trial was one of the first in which not only the detective techniques were publicly on display, but also the medical detective work (or forensics), and it caused a sensation. Bishop and Williams were found guilty and publicly hanged at Newgate on December 5, 1831, in front of an estimated thirty thousand spectators. The corpses of both men were duly dissected by anatomists. But at the end of December 1831, a professor of medical jurisprudence named John Gordon Smith published a blistering letter in
The
Lancet
in which he denounced Hulme Beaman's conclusion that sudden death was indicated by the chambers of the heart being empty, which he said instead suggested a lingering death. And Bishop and Williams's admission that they had drugged and drowned the boy also called into doubt Hulme Beaman's confident claim that death was caused by a blow to the back of the neck. These criticisms did nothing to enhance Hulme Beaman's reputation.

At some point, there may have been a rift in the Hulme Beaman family.

George Hulme Beaman and his wife, Mary Ann Offley, had a large family, among their children being S. G.'s grandfather, George Hulme Beaman, who also became a doctor and for a while shared a practice with his father. Another son was Ardern Hulme Beaman, who was a surgeon general with the army in Hoshangabad, India. One of his sons, the unusually named Emeric Hulme Beaman (1864–1937), was a writer who, in partnership with William Senior Ellis, wrote four mystery novels under the pseudonym Ben Strong. These were published between 1925 and 1928.

George Hulme Beaman's daughter, Henrietta Hulme Beaman (1831–1895), was also an interesting person. In 1851 she married Joseph Robins, a young and successful businessman who was wooed by the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd and took to the stage. He was a comedian, but not a successful one, and his career declined to doing small parts in the provinces, which was where he met Henry Irving, perhaps the greatest of the Victorian actor-managers. Engaged in some small way to do a pantomime one bitterly cold Christmas, he was pained to see a fellow actor shivering and suffering in poverty and thin, summer clothing. Pawning most of what he owned, he laid before his fellow actors a memorable Christmas dinner at his cheap lodging and to the shivering actor gave a suit of thick, warm, and heavy underclothing. Irving was that actor and never forgot Robins's generosity.

In 1874 Joe fell ill and Henrietta, who had joined him treading the boards, appealed in the theatrical newspaper
The
Era
for help to pay his medical bills, which amounted to sixty pounds. As her father and family could have paid this money, the appeal in
The
Era
suggests that Henrietta and her father were estranged. Sadly, Joe never got better and in 1878 he died. Destitute, Henrietta again turned to
The
Era
, advertising for theater work or a job as a housekeeper. The theatrical cavalry evidently rode to her rescue because the 1891 census records that Henrietta was an “Actress with own Company.” She died on April 18, 1895.

Her brother, S. G.'s grandfather, George Hulme Beaman Jr. (1825–1863), was admitted to the Royal College of Surgeons on May 17, 1850. He married Jane Elizabeth Oakley and they had four children, two daughters, Emily Jane and Kate Julia, and two sons, George Hulme Robert Beaman, who was S. G.'s father, and Arthur Henry. For a time, George shared a practice with his father at 32 King Street, Covent Garden, but the
London
Gazette
, January 6, 1860, records that the partnership was dissolved. This may reflect a rift in the family, especially as Joe Robins's surname was given as a forename to S. G.'s father.

George Hulme Beaman died in 1863 aged only thirty-eight years, and his wife was left with four young children to raise, the youngest only ten months. It appears that she was supported by
her
family, possibly further evidence of a rift, and struggled alone for six years before she met Augustus Grain, manager of the Petersfield branch of the Hampshire Banking Company. The couple married in 1869 and had five children; sadly, only three made it into adulthood.

S. G.'s father, George Hulme Robins Hulme Beaman, was born about 1855 in Westminster, London, and was educated at Epsom College, Surrey, a relatively new school opened as the Royal Medical Benevolent College by a Dr. John Probert (1793–1867) with the express purpose of giving assistance to the widows and orphans of members of the medical profession. Originally it catered to just a hundred boys, but an extension in 1862 increased the intake to two hundred, of which ten were day scholars and the rest residential. The college register records that Hulme Beaman won several prizes.

He became a surveyor and risk assessor for an insurance company and early in 1881 married Eleanor Nicholls, who hailed from St. Albans, Hertfordshire. At one time, she had run away from home to become a singer and actress, adopting the stage name Nellie Leslie. She and G. H. R. lived at 11 Woodstock Rd, Hornsey, but moved to Tottenham, where their children were born: Sydney George Hulme (1887), Dorothy Eleanor (1889), and Winifred Gladys (1892).

By the 1911 census, the family was all still together; S. G., now twenty-four years old, was an insurance clerk. His sister Dorothy was a private secretary to a chartered accountant, and Winifred was presumably a scholar, no occupation being given for her.

S. G. wanted to be an artist, but his father was not supportive—something he had in common with James Carnac—and wanted him to use his talents as an architect, but his mother settled the matter and he was enrolled in the famous Heatherley's School of Art, founded by Thomas Heatherley in 1845. Among the pupils who had studied there were Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Millais, and sometime Jack the Ripper suspect Walter Sickert.

S. G. also indulged his taste for the theater and performed in music halls and at smoking concerts—these were very popular all-male live concerts, usually musical, the music invariably providing a background to discussion about politics and such like. S. G. formed an amateur group called the Dickensian Fellowship, acting assorted parts as diverse as Fagin and Mr. Peggotty. He was good enough to be invited to perform professionally. It was through his performing that he met Maud Mary Poltock, who played piano for his recitals. They married in April 1913 in Fulham. She and S. G. would have two children, Geoffrey S. Hulme Beaman (born in 1914) and Betty Hulme Beaman (born 1918).

The end of the First World War in 1918 saw a changed Britain in which music halls and smoking concerts were to all intents and purposes things of the past, and new entertainments were emerging. There was a shortage of toys and S. G. turned an upstairs room in his house in Golders Green into a studio with a work bench, drawing board, tools, paints, and a pot of resin glue almost permanently bubbling on a gas burner, and there he began carving figures for model theaters, starting with Mr. Noah and the animals of his ark. They were blockish, angular figures, and he adapted the style for a comic strip called
Philip
& Phido
, which began appearing in the
Golders
Green
Gazette
in 1923. Two years later, in 1925, he wrote and illustrated two children's books,
The
Road
to
Toytown
and
Trouble
in
Toyland
, several of the characters in these and subsequent stories having their origins in the
Philip
& Phido
strips, such as the self-important Mr. Mayor, who developed from a character called the Admiral.

The books were seen by May Jenkins, then better known as Aunt Elizabeth on a radio series called
Children's Hour
, who recognized their dramatic potential.