Francis Thompson in 1888. He was an ex-medical student with a dissecting scalpel, and a history of mental illness and trouble with the police. He had just broken up with a prostitute and had written about cutting women's stomachs open. At the same time, a few yards from his refuge, a woman was knifed, as part of a spate of prostitute murders, which one coroner said was by someone who had considerable anatomical skill and knowledge. Richard A. Patterson sets out a compelling case for English poet Francis Thompson as the prime suspect for Jack the Ripper in this must-read for Ripperologists the world over.
About the Author: This author, who has written about Francis Thompson, grants his readers an imaginary summary of things as if penned by his suspect.'Black it is to describe this species, thus I shall begin with light. My own perspective on life has caused me to accept certain principles. Some of them have found favour due to their assistance when trying to solve problems. One, which has proved useful, is the knowledge that we can only see by the eye what the mind can bear to feel. Unless there are beings, such as I, to witness light, as motes of dust do, suspended in the still air of a sanctuary, even the rays of the blessed sun are made black. So, too, may light be flashed back from a void. For the ability to perceive what is gross illuminates what is dark and through illumination makes what is small and dull into beings both monstrous and radiant.'Yet I tell you, those that do read on, that whatever does follow, although based on myself, has been ghost written by a mediocre poet, who to me is not unlike a particle; isolated and alone in a distant place and far-off time. He is a man of little or no originality and of finite personality. He speaks of me only because fear has bent him to his knees; not all the perfumes of all the world can remove his stench of fear. Prick his words and they will lie bleeding. So what if there is a little blood? 'It has been many years now since this world has been born through me. My day has come and, pity for us all, I must die. Let my tears be his blackest ink and as I attempt to write in the blood of my five sisters, allow his fingers on the keys to impress upon you what I think. It is for this reason that I, Francis Thompson, have become breathless and to the author resign my breath. It is he who tries to grapple my crown of death though he knows that his success is all my power, but knowing this and despite knowing this, he shall speak for me and make his confession as he wears my life as one would a shroud of white.'