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Show up for CAMH and rise up for mental health. Register today at sunrisechallenge.ca. That's sunrisechallenge.ca. This is part three of the 100th episode of the morbid curiosity podcast.
If you haven't listened to part one, I recommend you go back and do that. This episode contains discussions of sex work, alcoholism, child neglect and death, and physical and sexual violence against women. If these aren't topics you want to hear about, this may be a good episode to skip. Humans are fascinated by gore and violence, but even more so, the mysterious and unsolved interest in these disturbing and unpleasant subjects is called morbid curiosity, and it has gripped millions of people throughout the ages.
I am one of those people. My name is Halley, and this is the morbid curiosity podcast. The Canonical Five, as they are known by ripperologists, are Marianne, called Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows, and Mary Jane Kelly. I don't proclaim to be an expert on the lives of these women.
In fact, not many researchers can claim that title, as so often they are only viewed as victims. Much of the information I've summarized for this episode comes from a book by Halley Rubenhold called The Five. It's an excellent source backed by public records and detailed research. I highly recommend reading it.
Still, there's a lot we don't know, as not every detail of their lives was documented. There were other women killed around the same time, but none who were treated the same way in death as these five. There's some debate whether Elizabeth Stride belongs in this group, as her body suffered no mutilations after she was killed. Still, most ripperologists include her, so I will as well.
Before we begin, some historical context about the plight of women in 1888 is needed to understand how all these women became labeled as prostitutes or people who were paid for sex acts. Any woman who was unmarried and pregnant was often described and treated as a common prostitute. Women who had casual sex or lived with men without being married to them were also labeled as such, so were women who separated from their husbands and then formed relationships with other men. This was also considered adultery, which according to society was akin to prostitution.
So the word prostitute was more of a negative moral label than an actual indication of profession. This derogatory connotation is why modern sex workers prefer not to be referred to as prostitutes. Women deemed respectable by society were always one death away from poverty, as their husband's income was their main source of finance. Women could work, but the work paid so little they were likely to live hand to mouth even if they did have a steady job.
The age of the woman also factored in as single women older than 30 were considered pariahs by society, and work for them was limited and poorly paid. Most became charwomen, doing daily domestic duties for Jewish families on the Sabbath as their beliefs required no work be done on that day. However, that was only one day a week, so many had to find other ways of making money. Having children to support stretched that unreliable income even thinner, many times a child would fare better at a workhouse or industrial school, which were both state-run institutions to assist those in need.
The workhouse was a harsh environment for adults and children, as were industrial schools, although at an industrial school the child would learn a trade and be more likely to be able to support themselves after they aged out. However, the family would be broken up in either situation, so while the child was fed and sheltered, their emotional health suffered. Another thing to keep in mind is the absolute chokehold addiction can have on a person. Alcohol has a powerful effect on the brain, producing pleasurable feelings and blunting negative ones.
Modern research shows that over time, drinking to cope with stress tends to compound negative emotional states once the alcohol wears off, motivating further drinking. The person becomes stuck in an unhealthy cycle, unable to stop or control their alcohol use despite adverse social, occupational, or health consequences. With all of that in mind, we begin with Marianne Paulie Nichols. Born Marianne Walker on August 26, 1845, Paulie was the second child of Caroline and Edward Walker.
Edward was a blacksmith who specialized in making typeface, which was a respected trade but not well paid. Paulie had an older and younger brother. All three were educated, and Paulie was able to remain in school until she was 15, which was unusual for her class and gender. She grew up in a cramped, rented room that she shared with her whole family.
Tragedy came early in Paulie's life. Her mother died of tuberculosis when she was seven. Her younger brother also died of tuberculosis two years later. Instead of moving out to find work as a domestic servant as was expected of young women, Paulie stayed with her father and brother, keeping the house as she grew up.
At age 18, she met a printer, William Nichols, and the two were married on the 16th of January, 1864. Paulie's first son was born on the 17th of December, 1864. She was pregnant again by Autumn 1865, but unfortunately lost her first child after a year and nine months. She had her second, third, and fourth child all before the age of 26.
William and Paulie moved their growing family to the Peabody buildings in Lambeth, London, a new development for respectable working-class families. They had several rooms and shared a toilet and sink with only one other family. Paulie had two more children, and then her problems began. Paulie's father claimed that William began an affair with a neighbor, Rosetta Walls.
It seems Paulie coped by drinking alcohol. Between the birth of her last child in 1880, things came to a head five or six times. In March of 1880, Paulie walked out, leaving her husband and five children. She went to the workhouse.
Paulie was either desperate or seeking an official separation from William. To get an official separation, as women couldn't divorce their husbands without undeniable proof of adultery, a wife had to demonstrate her destitution, and the workhouse was a humiliating but effective way to do so. However, separation from a husband also came with assumptions that the woman was of immoral character. Paulie was in and out of the workhouse for about a year.
In June 1883, she moved in with her father and brother, but had to leave soon after due to her behavior when she was drunk, which was often. In 1884, she moved in with a blacksmith widower named Thomas Stewart Drew and his three daughters. While with Drew, it appears Paulie sobered up. In 1886, Paulie met with her father, who told her that her brother had died.
This news drove her back to drink. She was arrested in autumn 1887 for tramping and begging in Trafalgar Square. Trampers were a combination of casual workers and beggars. They got work where they could, but had no permanent homes.
It's likely that Paulie slept rough often, curled up in a doorway, in a churchyard, or under bridges. Sex work was one way to make money, but most women Paulie's age made more by begging. In February 1888, Paulie gained a domestic servant position after another long, sober stay at the workhouse. However, by July, Paulie left, taking the clothing she'd been given with her.
It's likely she pawned the clothes immediately to get cash for lodgings. Her preferred place to lodge became Wilmut's lodging house in Thrall Street, Whitechapel. It was the safest place as it was females only. She shared a room with three other women, including one named Ellen Holland.
Ellen described Paulie as a melancholy loner, who was often, quote, the worst for it, unquote, due to alcohol. Ellen provided the most information about Paulie at the coroner's inquest and insisted that Paulie was not a prostitute. Holland stated that on August 31st, Paulie was at a pub on Thrall Street until about 1230 am. When she tried to get a bed at Wilmut's for that night, she was turned away due to lack of funds.
Ellen saw Paulie again around 230 am on Osborne Street, and she was very drunk. She said she'd earned the money, but had drunk it. After she left Ellen, Paulie probably sought a place to sleep outside, but she didn't know Whitechapel very well, and she was intoxicated. She likely wondered until she found a spot to sleep.
It was her father, son, and estranged husband, who came to identify her body at the mortuary. All were heartbroken. Annie Chapman, born Annie Eliza Smith in September of 1841, was the oldest daughter of George Smith, a second life guard, which is a senior regiment of the British Army and servant Ruth Chapman. Because they weren't married when Annie was born, Ruth was considered a, quote, dolly mop, end quote, an amateur prostitute following the regiment.
Five months after Annie's birth, Ruth was pregnant again, and George was allowed to marry her. Their nuptials were backdated by two years to make it all respectable. The family lived in the barracks with George at first. They had no privacy, but did have access to medical care, schooling, a bank account, and a library.
By 1848, due to George's rise up the ranks, they were able to live outside the barracks, Annie now being the oldest of six. However, they moved often following the regiment. The family shared homes with other army families, and as rents rose, they moved to worse and worse neighborhoods. In 1854, Scarlet Fever, combined with typhus, killed four of Annie's siblings in three weeks, leaving only Annie and her sister, Emily.
Two more sisters were born by 1856, when Annie was 15. By 1861, Annie was a live-in maid for an aged architect and his bachelor brother in Westminster. She had her own room, but not much money and no time off. In June of 1863, her father died violently.
His throat cut deeply. The death was ruled a suicide. Annie's family was now completely dependent on her meager salary. Her mother let out rooms in their house to make ends meet.
A gentleman coachman named John Chapman moved in, and eventually, he and Annie wed when she was 27. John was near the top of the servants hierarchy as a coachman. He and Annie moved into their own home in an aristocratic neighborhood near his employer. John eventually gained a position as a coachman and stable manager for Francis Tress Berry, a baronet at St.
Leonard's Hill. Edward Prince of Wales was a close friend of Berry's, and stayed in his home often, along with other minor royals. The Chapman's were now middle class. However, Annie was hiding a secret addiction.
She struggled with alcohol, often attempting to give it up and failing. Miriam, one of her younger sisters, stated that Annie's problems began when she was quite young, probably around the time her siblings died. At the time, spirits and medicine were interchangeable, so alcohol was ever present in every house. Public drunkenness was seen as a degenerate habit.
Therefore, Annie had hid her addiction for years. Then, in the 1880s, ladies' saloons made public drinking for middle class women acceptable, bringing her habit out of the shadows. Annie also struggled having children. Her first child began having seizures at age eight.
Her second died at birth. Her third, a daughter, had what we now recognize as fetal alcohol syndrome. Her fourth child died after a month. Her fifth died after 11 weeks, and her sixth died at 10 weeks.
In 1880, she had a son, who was born paralyzed. In 1882, Annie's oldest daughter died of meningitis. Annie was wrapped in deep despair. She gained a reputation as a sad, sullen, quiet drunk, prone to wandering.
On the day of her daughter's funeral, Annie checked in to spellthorn sanatorium in Feltham, basically a rehab center for middle class female alcoholics. She stayed for a year, working her way back to sobriety. She was discharged in November of 1883. However, soon after, illness brought alcohol back into the house.
Annie relapsed severely. Devastated by her failures in sobriety and motherhood, she gave up trying to be sober. Eventually, she and John separated, both heartbroken. John kept the children and gave Annie ten shillings a week.
It appears Annie went as far away from her old life as possible, ending up in Whitechapel. In 1884, she lived in a Dorset Street lodging house with Jack City, a sievemaker and alcoholic. She kept her past to herself and gained the nickname Dark Annie. She had a good friend at the house named Amelia Palmer, who said Annie was always respectable, never used bad language, and was clever and industrious when sober.
In December of 1886, Annie walked 25 miles in the cold to Windsor to see John, who was ill. He died on Christmas day, leaving Annie penniless. Amelia said Annie returned to Whitechapel completely broken. Sivy left in early 1887.
To make ends meet, Annie did crochet work, sold matches and flowers. She occasionally visited her family, but never stayed long. Her brother, Fontaine, saw her most often and lent her money. He was also a secret alcoholic.
Annie grew more and more on well, showing signs of tuberculosis. By 1888, she had a steady relationship with a brewer, Edward Stanley, nicknamed Ted the Pensioner. They were in and out of cohabitation in the lodging house and were recognized as a couple. Annie even wore rings to show her fidelity to him.
She worked hard to make money, but by this point, she was terminally ill. Most weeks, she spent at least three nights sleeping rough. The backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, where Annie's body was found, was a well-known location for people sleeping rough. That night, Annie had spent her doss money on alcohol, so it's likely she went there to sleep.
After her death, her brother Fontaine identified her body. Elizabeth Stride was born on November 27, 1843, just west of Gothenburg, Sweden, to a relatively prosperous farming and very devout Lutheran family. Elizabeth learned to read the Bible and was confirmed in 1859 at the age of 15. A month before she turned 17, she traveled to Gothenburg to seek employment as a domestic servant.
By February 1861, Elizabeth was a maid for Lars Frederick Olson, a comfortable lower-middle-class gentleman. He was a caretaker, likely of the block of apartments where they lived. Elizabeth worked with another girl, Lena Carlson, sharing a room and a bed. However, Elizabeth's contract was suddenly dissolved in February 1864 for unknown reasons.
Occasionally, female servants developed relationships with their employers. They lived with them and had no opportunity to socialize outside the family they served. Sexual relationships with servants for males was commonplace and not always consensual. For a maid, however, it could ruin her reputation.
While some of these relationships did involve love and promises of providing for the woman, most times she was discarded, which often landed her in the sex trade. Around April 1865, Elizabeth left her new position for an apartment paid for by an unknown lover. By March, Elizabeth was visibly pregnant and her lover was nowhere to be found. She was reported to the police for pregnancy out of wedlock, assumed to be a prostitute, and was registered as public woman 97.
At the time in Sweden, female sex workers were highly regulated to limit spread of STIs in a fashion very similar to the contagious disease acts which we discussed in a previous episode. These women were required to register as public women and have regular gynecological examinations with a surgeon at a police station or they faced prison. Society and the Church judged them as sinners. A sign of the shame Elizabeth felt is revealed by her registry details in which she stated her parents were dead.
Therefore, they couldn't be contacted. Soon, Elizabeth displayed the early symptoms of syphilis. She was probably infected by the father of her child. She was committed to a disease hospital where patients were treated as prisoners.
Doctors and nurses were allowed to use force to keep the overflowing number of inmates contained. Treatments included mercury, both ingested and topical, or chinctures and ointments containing other heavy metals. Elizabeth went into premature labor, resulting in a stillbirth. She was discharged as cured in May 1865, although at the time there was no cure for syphilis, the symptoms had only faded.
Due to her registration, Elizabeth was no longer able to work any other trade than sex work. By October, she lived on Pilgatan, Gothenburg's so-called street of nymphs as a sex worker. There would have been a steep learning curve with an ever-present threat of violence and disease. She probably used an alias as her name disappeared from the census for a while.
On August 30th, 1866, Elizabeth returned to the disease hospital for syphilis symptoms. Many times, the Swedish Church tried to save fallen women, bringing them to shelters and retraining them as maids or laundresses. It was one way to get off the registry. This is likely how Elizabeth was hired as a servant by Maria Ingrid Weisner.
Around this time, Elizabeth also received a quote inheritance, unquote, from her mother, who had died in 1864. It's more likely this money was a payment from the man who had impregnated her, as women under 25 couldn't receive inheritance money. This sort of payment was a common practice for men who left their mistresses. In February of 1866, Elizabeth left for London at age 22, employed by a British family.
That year, Elizabeth worked in a house in Hyde Park. Her employer is unknown, but they were quite wealthy. She learned a new language and new servant to master conventions. However, she again left her position for unknown reasons.
During the 1888 inquest, a possible scandal was inferred. Her then-boyfriend, Michael Kidney, stated that Elizabeth often left him for the brother of a gentleman she had worked for as a servant. Perhaps an affair had led to her resignation. Elizabeth got another position with a widow named Elizabeth Bond at a reputable middle-class letting house.
John Thomas Stride was a carpenter in Scotland, who lived with his devoutly Methodist father until he was 40. In 1861, he left for London to make a living making furniture. As a tea-total male, he frequented coffee houses rather than pubs. He probably met Elizabeth at a coffee house as she ran errands for her employer.
They married on March 7, 1869, Elizabeth putting fake names for her parents on the marriage certificate. None of her family or friends were present. The couple moved to Poplar in the east end to open a coffee house. At this stage, Elizabeth couldn't infect John with syphilis, but it may have stopped her from getting pregnant.
In September of 1873, the coffee house failed, and the marriage began to turn sour. By March of 1877, Elizabeth entered the workhouse alone. On September 3, the pleasure-cruiser Princess Alice collided with a coal freighter and sank into the Thames, killing 650 people. London was traumatized by the event, and Elizabeth took note.
She created an elaborate story about her family dying in the Princess Alice disaster to garner pity while begging. She used it to distance herself from John, claiming he was dead. Elizabeth and John officially separated in 1881. She moved into a lodging house at 32 Flower and Dean Street and became a charwoman.
She went by the alias Annie Fitzgerald on occasion. Elizabeth took on another alias, Elizabeth Watts nicknamed Long Liz, when she was mistaken by a woman named Mary Malcolm, for being her estranged sister. Starting in 1883, the two women drank together twice a week for five years. Mary gave Long Liz money whenever she could.
Eventually, Mary grew suspicious of Elizabeth, but was so embarrassed about being conned that she did nothing about it. On November 13, 1884, just after John's death, Elizabeth was arrested for soliciting the official name for sex work. Eventually, she got involved with Michael Kidney, a dock worker, and army reservist. Both were alcoholics, and both were aggressive when drunk.
Elizabeth reported him twice for domestic abuse, but dropped the charges both times. From 1886 on, Elizabeth spiraled. By summer of 1888, she was charged four times in three months for being drunk and disorderly. Hallie Rubenhold, author of the Five, theorizes that Elizabeth was dealing not only with alcoholism, but tertiary syphilis as well.
Tertiary syphilis is also called neurosyphilis, because the disease moves into the nervous system. This can lead to seizures, paralysis, and dementia like symptoms. These symptoms could have been confused with drunkenness, and alcohol probably made them worse. In late September of 1888, Elizabeth lived at 32 Flower and Dean Street, a lodging house.
On September 29, she cleaned the house for six pence, then went to the pub. She returned at 6.30 p.m., smartened herself up, and went out again. That was the last confirmed sighting of Elizabeth's stride before her death. At the coroner's inquest, no one knew Elizabeth's typical haunts and habits, or who her regular friends were.
It seems no one knew her well at all. Only Sven Olson from the Swedish church, the one person who knew some of her actual history, attended her funeral. Catherine Eddows, known as Kate by her family, was born on April 14, 1842, in Wolverhampton, to George and Catherine Eddows. She was the youngest of five children.
Her father was a tin worker, and got a job in London when Kate was quite young. By 1854, six more children joined the family. For such a large family, finances were always tight, but the family had no debt. By April 1856, Kate had finished school, but her father had lost his job.
Her mother died of tuberculosis in November of 1855. Two years later, her father also died. Harriet and Emma, the oldest two Eddowsisters, did their best to care for their siblings, sending Kate to live with her aunt and uncle in Wolverhampton. Kate became a tin scourrer.
The work was dangerous and monotonous. When the oldest of her four cousins went into domestic service, Kate was also expected to help her aunt with her newborn baby. It's possible this is when Kate discovered the numbing effects of alcohol. In mid-1861, Kate was caught stealing from the tin works.
She was dismissed and then shunned by her family. At 19, she set out for Birmingham, walking 14 miles to live with her uncle Tom, a shoemaker and bare knuckle boxer, and his wife. She found work in another tin factory, this time polishing. It was likely during this time that Kate met Thomas Conway, also known as Thomas Quinn.
Thomas, who had been discharged from the army due to permanent lung and heart issues, was a traveling salesman of books known as a Chapman. He was in Birmingham in the summer of 1862 and moved with Kate back to Wolverhampton. Her family despised this drifter and Kate was told to break it off or leave, so she left. By 1862, she was pregnant.
Kate helped Thomas sell books by performing parts of them to draw crowds. She also helped him write his own tales as she was literate and he wasn't. However, they didn't make much money, so Kate checked into Great Yarmouth Workhouse in Norfolk during the ninth month of her pregnancy. There she gave birth to a daughter, Catherine Annie Conway.
After the birth, the couple continued to roam. They found some success in 1866 in Staffordshire. Chat books were often about morbid occurrences, such as murders and executions. Kate's distant cousin had been sentenced to death for killing his sweetheart, then trying to take his own life.
Kate and Tom wrote verses about the incident and sold them at his hanging. They made enough money to move to Westminster, London. A boy and then a girl were born to them in 1869. However, the girl died after three weeks.
Due to dwindling funds, Thomas left for Yorkshire to find work, while Kate and the children went to Greenwich Union Workhouse. Kate was in and out of the workhouse for the rest of her life. She had another son in 1873. The financial strain, time away, and the fact that Kate had grown into an alcoholic while Thomas was tea total, caused tension between them, which grew into physical arguments.
Kate was battered by Conway and refused to give up drinking. On August 6th, Kate was arrested for being drunk and disorderly, and served 14 days in prison. When her older children were able to babysit, Kate worked, doing laundry, charring, and hawking ballads. In 1879, she and Thomas sold chat books in Mill Lane in Woolwich.
The children were often left to mind the stall for hours. Once, the children were taken to the workhouse by police until Kate could be found to come and claim them. Another time, Kate never showed up to collect them, so her oldest daughter, Annie, had to. By autumn of 1881, Kate and Thomas had separated.
He said he'd left because of her drinking, while Kate's sisters said she left because he was abusive. Annie said Kate was hardly ever around. In September, Kate was arrested again for being drunk and disorderly. Three of her four older sisters broke off contact.
Her last sister, Eliza, lived in Whitechapel. Kate took up lodgings nearby, leaving her children with Thomas. She soon formed a relationship with John Kelly, another lodger. They both drank a lot and had no permanent home, but together they were the life of the DOS house, always singing and lending money to those who couldn't afford their beds.
They had a good relationship. He called her his wife, despite her keeping the last name Conway. With Kate as a charwoman and John as a dog worker, they couldn't always afford their bed. Kate was a well-known rough sleeper, usually finding a spot with friends in a shed off Dorset Street.
On the 28th of September, 1888, the couple only had enough money for one of them to get a bed. Kate pawned Kelly's boots for a few more shillings, which they used to buy tea, sugar, and lodgings for John. Kate probably slept rough. They met the next morning, then Kate left to find money, promising to be back by 4pm.
She only made it a few streets away, possibly meeting someone who owed her a drink. She was found paralytic from drink around 8.30pm by the police. She was released from custody at about 1am, probably not quite sober. It's likely she tried to find Kelly, then gave up and went to sleep rough in Metersquare.
Her body was identified by her sister Eliza and John Kelly. A crowd surrounded the hearse at her funeral on the 8th of October, full of friends and morbidly curious onlookers. The last of the five women was also the youngest. Mary Jane Kelly is a bit of a mystery.
She told many versions of her past to people who knew her, and never the whole story. Mary gets a lot of attention from both ripperologists and the media because she was the youngest, the prettiest, and the most mysterious, making it easy to imagine and theorize without worrying about being disproven. Her boyfriend, Joseph Barnet, gave a version of her past at the coroner's inquest, which is the most often repeated version. Mary said she was born in Limerick, Ireland, but whether this meant Limerick the county or Limerick the city is unknown.
She said she moved to Wales when she was young and married at 16, but that her husband died after a year. She became a sex worker to make ends meet. By 1884, Mary lived in a high-end bordello run by a French woman in Knightsbridge. She said she'd worn expensive clothes and rode in carriages with gentlemen.
She even traveled to Paris with them, but decided she didn't like that life, so returned to London. However, she often went by Marie Jeanette Kelly, referencing this past. At first, when she was back in London, she lived and worked from several brothels along Radcliffe Highway near the docks. One associate from there described her as decent when sober, but that she had an indulgence for intoxicants.
Most people thought of her as charming, intelligent, and artistic. She had a steady boyfriend for a while named Joseph Fleming, but the relationship didn't last long. After meeting Barnet, they moved in together in the East End. They had a good relationship, but they disagreed on her sex work and her association with sex workers.
In the book, Rubenhold goes over many of the conflicting stories, as well as many theories about how Mary ended up in Whitechapel. Rubenhold investigated some of the background Mary gave and found no records to support any of it. All leads led to dead ends. News of her murder didn't bring anyone forward from her past either.
All five women lived in the East End. They all struggled with alcoholism, and all had a history of homelessness and poverty. While they inhabited the same streets, it's unknown if they knew one another. Like ships in the night, they passed through the East End.
It's a tragedy that the only reason we know their names is because of the way they died. However, we do know their names, and we know enough about them to give a picture of what their lives were probably like. Sometimes, our morbid curiosity leads us to learn about people and places we never otherwise explore. Alisa B.
Alisa Tracy H. Jen S. Kristen I. Courtney C.
Jasmine G. Callie. Victoria L. Ali.
Marie E. Elizabeth. Cory A. Catherine D.
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My name is Halley, and until next time, thanks for listening.