From the diary of Amelia Meadowcroft, 31 December 1892
I came to London for the parties and stayed for the trouble. Father always said it would go that way.
Dr. Smith had the University Women’s Club kitted out in festive ornamentation when I arrived, and half the hopeful future of England drinking mulled wine on her carpet. The Webbs were there, rambling on about social reform (boring). A bunch of other people I didn’t recognize - except dear old Ida, whom I adore.
The first interesting thing I saw was a Turkish gentleman arriving on his own. Polat, I believe, in a spectacularly weird little hat, a bit lost in a room of pale Englishwomen. I bore down on him for the hat alone. He humored me with grace, more than I can say for other men I’ve met here in the Old World.
Boston Hank Worth knew of my father; most Harvard men do. He looked properly impressed when I opened the coat to show the revolver.
Then Georgie Banks blew in from the cold, fighting the doorman over his coat. What a delightful way with words this young man had! I must make it a point of learning where he’s from.
Dr. Saroch came in a little after. French, fifty if a day, well-traveled. Had some chat with Worth about The Good Book. Some wonderous stories in that book, I’ve always said!
All of which would have made for a very fine party except for the host.
Smith was nervous. I caught it three or four times, the way her eye kept drifting to the door. She mentioned a name to Worth: Maria, a student of Professor Demir’s out of Constantinople, expected and not arrived. Worth didn’t know her. Smith said it lightly and changed the subject, then drifted back to it ten minutes later. The kind of preoccupation that doesn’t leave a person until the thing it’s about resolves.
Auld Lang Syne struck up at the piano. Around the second verse a messenger boy slipped in past the doorman and put a note in Smith’s hand. She read it once, put on her coat, and walked out into a London midnight without saying goodbye to anyone. Georgie saw her go. The rest of us were singing.
The party kept going for two hours. I learned a great deal about anti-lynching legislation and the practical limits of bloomers in cold weather. And then, around two in the morning, Polat was handed a calling card by the butler. So was Georgie. Both said the same thing.
For God’s sake, come, bring a gun. 5 Durward Street, Whitechapel.
Durward Street. The name took a second to land, and then it landed hard. That is where they found Mary Ann Nichols five years ago. The Ripper’s first canonical kill. Sober, careful, professorial Dr. Julia Smith has gone to Whitechapel in the dark with no escort, and now wants us to bring a gun.
Polat is asking the butler if anyone here owns one we can borrow. Worth has gone pale and quiet. Saroch is checking her medical kit. Georgie is delighted, which I don’t fully understand but find encouraging.
My .41 is already on, of course. It hasn’t come off all night.