Mary Jane Kelly
I found a letter in a cedar chest dating back to the Victorian Era while renovating my ancestral home .
The letter appears to accuse Robert Franklin, one of my long-deceased relatives of being a murderer.
And now I'm faced with a problem. What should I do with this possible evidence of a 130 year old cold case?
My wife Tess has an answer and is adamant in her opinion.
“It might give closure to the woman’s living relatives, if there are any,” she opines.
I shake my head. “Even if that were true, what real good would that accomplish? It’s not as if they knew the woman.”
Tess frowns and looks hard at me. “You’re scared aren’t you?”
I nod.
“What are you afraid of?”
“Well, for one thing, if it proves true, it’ll ruin the family name—and what’s the point? Robert’s dead and moldering in his grave. Nothing can be done.”
My excuse seems lame and Tess knows it. "We’ve got to do something with this information, Tom.”
“We don’t even know if it’s true,” I protest.
“Well, I know what I’m going to do.”
I follow behind as she marches out to the SUV.
“You can’t call the police on such a flimsy basis,” I reason.
She stops and looks pointedly at me. “No, I can’t—but I can research the facts about the murder and see if this woman’s allegations could be true. Then, we’ll take it from there.”
We drive to the local public library and within minutes, Tess is on line typing in Mary Jane Kelly—the apparent murdered woman mentioned in the letter.
“You’re going to Google her name?”
“Why not?”
Suddenly, she stops and takes a deep breath.
“What’s wrong—what does it say?”
She reads off the monitor: …widely believed to be the fifth and final victim of the notorious unidentified serial killer, Jack the Ripper, who killed and mutilated prostitutes in the Whitechapel area of London from late August to early November 1888.
“Oh my God, Tom! —Your relative could have been Jack the Ripper.”
I want to shout, Stop! This is insane—but can’t. It made sense, actually. Robert probably romanced the plain Ella who suspected him, convincing her to live with him and keep quiet.
“Besides Mary Jane Kelly do you think he also killed Ella?” Tess asks.
“I think so. She may have been in contact with Mrs. Diessin, her old friend back in London, and the woman may have convinced her to go to the authorities and tell the truth about what she saw that night.”
“And to prevent that, Robert killed her?”
“It’s possible” I replied.
“So, what do we do now, Tom?”
“I guess we phone the police.”
The police were remarkably reluctant to get involved. After all, it was a hundred year old murder case—and one that took place on foreign soil.
“But what about the disappearance of Ella?” I asked the detective.
“Ah, that’s a different kettle of fish—she's from here and now we have a motive for Robert wanting to dispose of her.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’ll get a warrant and conduct a search of the house and grounds,” he said.
Two days later, they dug up the skeletal remains of Ella, buried in a shallow grave in the old dirt cellar.
“There used to be a coal bin there,” the detective said, “so the grave was easily concealed.”
But the coal furnace was replaced in the mid 1950’s,” I said, puzzled
The detective nodded and just stared at me.
It dawned on me what he was implying.
Robert’s son, Harold, must have discovered the grave when he removed the coal bin. He obviously covered it up. When he died, his son, George, my uncle, continued the code of silence.
“Do you think Robert Franklin was Jack the Ripper?” I asked.
The detective just smiled wryly. “Does it matter?”
I shrugged. It really didn’t.
It’s strange how time distances things.
Back in the past, catching Jack the Ripper, or discovering his identity, was important—it could bring peace of mind to the citizens of London and ease their fears and anxieties.
But now, uncovering his identity just amounted to morbid curiosity on the public’s part.
For conspiracy theory fanatics, the true identity of Jack the Ripper was just another riddle to speculate about and create endless scenarios.
The fact was, a horrific crime was committed that changed people’s psyches and haunted their nightmares.
It frightens and upsets people to this day.
This uncaught serial killer has altered the way we see one another—made us fearful of living in cities and afraid to walk in the night.
But as upsetting as the crimes in Whitechapel were, the greater significance lies in what the crimes themselves mean—it’s not about uncovering the true identity of the perpetrator.
As hard as it is to accept, the killer doesn’t matter—the atrocity of the crime does.
It matters to me though, since he was the grandfather of my uncle—but apart from that, it matters little to the world at large.
Perhaps the only thing that matters at all is the horror Jack the Ripper's name still elicits to this day.
Well, that and my own personal shame. After all, he was my relative who killed and buried his wife in the house I've been renovating and trying to sell.