A Ripping Yarn
Has anyone read that book by Patricia Cornwell, in which she asserts that the painter, Walter Sickert, was -in fact - that naughty boy, Jack the Ripper, who began his little spree in the dimly-lit streets of London's East End in 1888?Despite the irritating subtitle ('Case Closed') I found myself 90% convinced that she is right, having plowed my way through the chapters of compelling evidence and reason which she has accumulated by buying manuscripts relating to the cases, some of which were written by the Ripper himself. Her experience in mortuaries as a forensic scientist has stood her in good stead, and she has even conducted her own forensic tests on the material, though the bulk of her reason concentrates on her own analysis of the psychological state of mind of the killer, and the events in his past life that lead up to it, including a series of botched operations on Sickert when a boy, which left him with virtually no penis at all.
Sickert lived in Bath for the last years of his life, and a friend of mine actually discovered one of his paintings in the attic of a building that was one of his studios. His other studios were in the red-light districts of the East End...
I stumbled upon Sickert's grave in the nearby village of Bathampton recently, and wondered if I was also paying a visit to the most notorious serial killer in the world at the same time.
The book also made me wonder about just what is the fascination about this twisted, sordid and misogynistic psychopath that has continued for so many years, and does not seem to be waning. Time does not always heal.
