Horrid Murders!
The crimes that terrorised London long before Jack the Ripper
The year is 1811 (it’s not really, don’t worry, I’m just setting the scene) and some villainous rapscallion in London’s seedy, crime-ridden East End has murder on his mind. And not a very nice murder at that!
We will call this rapscallion (inventively) the ‘murderer’.
The devil’s business
At ten minutes to midnight on December 7th, the murderer prowls the cobbles of the Ratcliffe Highway, past the noisy pubs, opium dens and bawdy houses, clinging to the darkness.
He is the darkness.
“Spare a tuppence, sir?” A street urchin shelters in a doorway.
“No.” The murderer keeps prowling, his face hidden inside the collar of his cloak. “Feck awf.”
“I’d do anything for a tuppence, sir. Anything. A few kind words then, sir? A tip of your hat? Oh, I’ll never get the hang of this. All the other urchins make it look so easy.”
“Spare a tuppence, sir?” Another guttersnipe steps out from behind a barrel.
“Jesus!” The murderer fishes a penny from his pocket. “There. Now leave me alone. I’m about the devil’s business.”
“Much obliged to you, sir. Gawd bless ya.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the first urchin complains. “No one said following my dreams could be so hard.”
Final curtain
At four minutes to midnight, the murderer enters the drapery shop owned by Timothy and Celia Marr. Celia is upstairs feeding their baby puréed offal and singing a lullaby about the symptoms of syphilis.
…then your nose falls off and your balls explode…
Timothy and his young apprentice, James Gowan, are enjoying a well-deserved break from their work, rolling themselves up in linen and pretending to be butterfly and moth pupae. (James had to be a moth or Timothy said his wages would be docked).
Timothy looks up when bell above the door tinkles. “May I help you, sir? We’re closing soon.”
The murderer’s dark silhouette fills the doorway. “I’ve come to slice up your puddings.”
“Oh… you’ll be wanting Mrs Fishwife’s bakery. It’s across the road.”
“No, damn you… I am here for blood!”
Timothy, still in his chrysalis, takes a couple of hops towards the stranger, struggling to make out a face in the half-light. “The slaughterhouse then—got ya. It’s four doors down.”
“No. I’m here to…” The murderer sighs impatiently. “Enough of this prittle prattle.” He whips out what might have been a maul. Its brass head flashes in the gloom.
“Oh blimey, what are you going to do with that?” Timothy struggles desperately to break free from his chrysalis, but this butterfly will never get the chance to spread its beautiful wings. Within seconds, his brains are splattered across the floor.
James (the moth) does manage to shed his linen cocoon, but instead of dashing for the back door, he heads for the gas lamp on the desk and flutters around it, disorientated. The murderer makes quick work of him too, before heading upstairs.
Last call… forever
A mere twelve days later, the murderer strikes again. Publicans, John and Elizabeth Williamson and their servant, Bridget Harrington, are bludgeoned to death at the King’s Arms, just half a mile away from the Marr’s drapery.
Their bodies are discovered by the Williamson’s lodger, John Turner, who tells the authorities: ‘That’s exactly how I found them. Just like that. I definitely didn’t look up their nighties or anything.’
There are now seven victims in total, the youngest just fourteen weeks old. London is a cauldron of frayed nerves and paranoia. And it stinks.
The Thames River Police is under pressure to find the culprit or culprits.
We are under pressure to find the culprit or culprits—Patrick Colquhoun, joint founder of the Thames River Police, 1811.
A confession?
John Williams, an ex-sailor, is quickly arrested and the evidence against him is damning (albeit entirely circumstantial).
Williams hangs himself in his jail cell before the case is ever tried.
Or does he?
Williams’s never-seen-before so-called ‘confession’, revealed here for the FIRST time, seems to suggest that not only was he INNOCENT of the charges, but also THAT dark forces may HAVE had him MURDERED.
Decide FOR yourself.
Here is THE confession (the relevant part ANYWAY):
…right in me trinkets, so I gives the cock robin a good click in the chops, caudge-pawed course, cos I didn’t know nothing about no cabbages. I was out a-caterwauling all darkmans, a diddle in my daddles and my bestest galligaskins and stampers. By my ogles and wattles, I got a rum clapper-clawing and rib-roasting for it mind. The whore’s kitling was hopper-arsed! Every swigman, silk snatcher, clank napper, bubber and prigger was all agog by then. All them slipgibbets in the jug. Well, it was like killing two birds with one stone. Or canaries! Killing two birds with one canaries. That don’t sound right to me, guv. Cunny thumb’d dimber damber couldn’t dub the damn gigger. Duck legs, you see? It’s like me old man used to say: don’t tell Ma none. I didn’t mean no harm by it. But Ma was a dishclout. Can I have me flogging now? I know my rights!
Here’s what people are saying about BAD HISTORY:
“It was fine. Yes, of course I’ve read it. It was fine” (Bad History’s mum)
“If I say I like it, can I have my shoes back?” (Man at bus stop)
“I don’t care if you’re a historian. You need to give this gentleman his shoes back” (Police officer at bus stop)
This is one of the funniest stories I have found in Substack! Good one:)