The tragic saga of Jack the Ripper is actually a love story.
It is the tale of a lonely, dysfunctional man’s obsession for a beautiful, lively young woman.
Their introduction was possibly a prank that went wrong.
Who could have forecast that Francis Craig would fall headlong for a girl so much his opposite?
Elizabeth had little education or intellect. She was what would today be called a party animal.
What mattered to her was the company of friends, music, dancing, laughter.
Francis was by contrast a solitary man.
Any conversation longer than a few minutes became a burden from which he had to escape.
The prospect of losing the only other human being for whom he had felt real emotion was unbearable. It festered within him and eventually came out in the 12-week orgy of killing that finally drove him to destroy the only thing he loved.
The Real Mary Kelly
The idea of singing or dancing would have horrified him.
What he sought was love, tenderness, understanding, the very things that had been denied to him by doctrinaire parents fixated on their own cranky theories on the upbringing of children.
Who knows that, given time, he might have learned to socialise, he might have fathered children to whom he could have shown affection such as he had never experienced.
When the object of his desire deserted him it was more than he could take.
He sought her out, beseeched her to come back to him, to give it another try, but Elizabeth had never been in it for anything other than a laugh.
By Wynne Weston-Davies