The Five: The Untold Lives of the Women Killed by Jack the Ripper

by Hallie Rubenhold

Much to the horror of observers, these campers could be seen making their morning ablutions and scrubbing their ‘vermin infested’ clothing in the fountains, directly beneath the nose of Lord Nelson, who peered down from high atop his column.

Whitechapel Vigilance Society

Gothenburg had left a cruel mark upon her, one that would always remain, no matter where she called home.

By the middle of the nineteenth century, the coffee house, often associated with the intellectual pursuits of the Georgian era, was experiencing a revival among all ranks of London’s working men. Open from as early as 5 a.m. and until as late as 10 p.m., these establishments offered simple meals of chops, kidneys, bread and butter, pickles and eggs along with cups of sugared coffee. The latest newspapers and periodicals were also available to read or to hear read aloud, but no alcohol was served. Coffee houses became a retreat for those who had taken abstinence pledges or simply for men who wished to enjoy a convivial environment somewhere other than the pub. Factory workers and craftsmen, who once drank porter in the mornings, now stopped on their way to work for a penny roll and a cup of hot caffeine. On the way home, the busy atmosphere of the coffee house mellowed into something more restful. Patrons were encouraged to take their time amid the partitioned, dark-wood stalls, enjoying a plate of pork chops alongside their lightly stained periodicals. ‘In the evenings these places become reading rooms,’ writes one observer. ‘They are convenient to thousands of persons who have not the comforts of domesticity at home. The good fire, the bright light, the supply of newspapers and magazines, and the cup of simple beverage, are obtainable for a few pence …’2

Working for Jewish families would have also offered Elizabeth the security of knowing that fellow immigrants were not usually eager to discuss their pasts, and therefore were unlikely to make many enquiries into hers.

Living apart from John, away from the West End and from Poplar, gave Elizabeth the opportunity to become whoever she wished. She had learned that shedding identities was as simple as moving somewhere new.

Whether or not Elizabeth’s disease was to blame, her behaviour for most of the time she lived in Whitechapel was decidedly secretive and deceitful.

At one point, a ‘poor creature who had evidently been drinking exclaimed somewhat bitterly; we’re all up to no good and no one cares what becomes of us. Perhaps some of us will be killed next! If anybody had helped the likes of us years ago we would have never come to this!’

She was lowered, without any fanfare, into a pauper’s grave on 6 October at the East London Cemetery in Plaistow.