Ripped by Shelly Dickson Carr Page A

physician? . . . Doctor Jack?
    This next statue showed a man with a shiny bald head, a too-red face, large nose, and flabby jowls swelling over the turned-up collar of his long black coat. Wax fingers, sprouting hair from the knuckles, clutched a leather medical bag, and he had crinkled, suspicious-looking eyes.
    The next sign asked if Jack might have been an aristocrat:
    Or was Jack the Ripper a nobleman, whose family connections would make it
impossible to prosecute him? . . . Sir Jack?
. . . Lord Jack?
. . . The Duke of Jack?
    This wax figure was of a short, barrel-chested man wearing an ermine-trimmed cloak and velvet sash, looking very much like the future King of England, Prince Edward.
    Or was Jack the Ripper a butcher by trade? There were slaughterhouses in the East End of London. Butcher boys proudly walked the streets with their trademark leather aprons stained in blood. . . . Jack the butcher lad?
    Here was a young man of about sixteen in knee breeches, a tweed cap perched low on his forehead, and a bloody leather apron around his waist.
    Or a reporter looking to capitalize on the story, prowling the streets and interviewing people, trying to get the latest inside scoop on Jack the Ripper for his newspaper? Several prominent writers at the time used
gore and grisly scenes as well as the supernatural
as part of their stock in trade. . . . Novelist Jack?
. . . Journalist Jack?
    This waxwork was of two men: Oscar Wilde, flamboyantly dressed with a red gardenia in his lapel, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle with deerstalker cap and meerschaum pipe.
    Katie jerked to a stop and shook her head. “Give me a break! That’s ridiculous! Oscar Wilde as Jack the Ripper? Conan Doyle as Sir Jack? Puh-leeze ! ”
    â€œBleedin’ far-fetched, true enough.” Toby smiled. “But the Ripper could easily have been a writer. Bram Stoker was writing blood-sucking scenes of grisly death; Oscar Wilde was into grotesque supernatural death; and Sherlock Holmes was all about solving murder mysteries. Maybe ”—Toby’s smile broadened into an even wider grin — “Jack the Ripper was a psycho ink-slinger doing murder research in the East End.”
    Katie shot him an incredulous look and scooted past the last waxwork suspect, that of “Constable Jack,” depicting a police officer in a crisp blue uniform, brass buttons gleaming, the patent-leather rim of his black helmet sitting high on his head, the leather chin strap tight around his double chin.
    As they moved past, Toby pointed to the wooden truncheon, rattle, and bright silver whistle hooked into the belt around Constable Jack’s waist.
    â€œI’m done here,” Katie said. “We’ve gone from the grotesque to the ridiculous. They are really grasping at straws here.”
    â€œBut don’t you see?” Toby put in. “People don’t like to have their heroes debunked. If you can’t stand the thought of the author of Sherlock Holmes being a mass murderer, think how the Victorians must have scoffed at the idea—making it the perfect cover for the Ripper. Oh, I’m not saying the Ripper was any of these literary guys. But you can’t rule out that he could have been a local hero . . . an East End writer . . . or actor . . . a musician . . . a performer the people knew and loved. Remember, they would have been much more gullible back then.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œA stage actor who played the white knight on stage would remain that way in the minds of young, impressionable girls. We know that actors aren’t who they portray on the screen, but we’re often just as smitten. Back then if a girl had paid a farthing to see a theatrical play, she might easily fall in love with the leading man. Then, if she saw him on the street, she’d never dream he wasn’t the stage hero she’d fallen in love with.”
    â€œGood