A Ripper and a Writer

This week, I went on two guided school trips. They were about two different men, one famous, the other infamous. Of course this could only refer to two of the best known Englishmen (perhaps) of all time: Jack the Ripper and Charles Dickens.

Here I am, happily perched on what I didn't know was a crime scene at the time. Right behind me, in that luscious looking grass, Jack's third victim was discovered on the night that he committed two murders one right after the other...I will spare the gruesome details that wiped the smile from my beaming face when the tour guide spoke them. He happened to say the body was found, and here he dramatically pointed directly at where I was seated, "There!" Of course I hopped off the little brick wall as fast as I could. The tour was enjoyable as any creepy evening could be, full of mystery, gore, crime, ransom letters and the coolest Scottish tour guide ever. Our tour guide kept talking about how cute kittens were in the midst of the discussion of a serial killer. By digressing into stories about the cuddly cuteness of kittens, the guide allowed everyone to survive the tour without any lasting trauma. Sadly, we did not solve the mystery of who Jack the Ripper really was that night. The identity of Jack died when his last known victim did.