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Tacita leaned in close and lowered her voice a tad. “So tell me, Jack. What’s your real name?" "You don’t really want to know who I am. You just think you do. Aye, the public loves its monsters – as long as we keep our distance. Nessie and me, we know the score. It’s not us the public wants to see, it’s the ripple we leave behind us in the water, it’s the shadow we cast just beyond the gaslight. We’re the nameless dread, the thing that bumps. We flourish in the night but wither in the light. And the public wouldn’t have it any other way.” “Does that mean you’re not going to tell me?” “You’re sharp, Judy. Sharp as a tack.” “OK, fine. Be that way. Hell, I already know who you are. I just wanted you to confirm it before I tell the world.” “And who, pray tell, do you think I am?” “You are ... the Duke of Clarence!” “The Duke of Clarence? Oh please! That dawdling mama’s boy wouldn’t have the grit for this line of work!” “Did I say the Duke of Clarence? I meant Walter Sickert.” “Sickert! That hack uses brushes and paint to make his art. I use blades and blood to create masterpieces of murder. No artist has ever captured the public’s imagination the way I have!” “OK, if you’re not Walter Sickert you must be ... Montague John Druitt.” “Druitt? There’s nothing to it.” “Lewis Carroll?” “You’re mad as a hatter.” “Aaron Kosminski?” “Oh sure, blame the poor Polish Jewish guy, you bigot!” “You’re Francis Tumblety, aren’t you?” “That quack couldn’t cut a fart without slicing his thumb off, let alone remove a kidney with surgical precision. You insult me, madam.” “William Henry Bury?” “You can bury that notion right now.” “Thomas Neill Cream?” “You’re going to milk this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?” “Come on, tell me. ... Tell me, tell me, tell me. ... Please, pretty please? ... Pretty please with sugar on it?” He groaned. “If I tell you, will you shut up and go away?” “Yes.” “Promise?” “Cross my heart and hope to die.” “I hope you die too. But since I’m no longer capable of putting you into that wondrous state, I shall reveal my true identity.” He paused for dramatic effect. Or maybe he was just struggling to catch one last breath. “I am ... Therbangale Pindeos Ruppnutt.” “Who? ... Who did you say?” A death rattle was Jack’s only reply. She stared into his glazed eyes, then sank back on her haunches. “Therbangale Pindeos Ruppnutt? What a ridiculous name! I’ve never seen that name listed on a single Ripperology site. Ever! You made it up, didn’t you? Just to be a dick.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Hey, I asked you a question. Did you make up that silly name just to be a dick? ... Hello? ... Hey, are you dead? ... You went and died on me, didn’t you? God, that is so rude!”

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Tacita Pruval Learns the True Identity of Jack the Ripper

Tacita leaned in close and lowered her voice a tad. “So tell me, Jack. What’s your real name?" "You don’t really want to know who I am. You just think you do. Aye, the public loves its monsters – as long as we keep our distance. Nessie and me, we know the score. It’s not us the public wants to see, it’s the ripple we leave behind us in the water, it’s the shadow we cast just beyond the gaslight. We’re the nameless dread, the thing that bumps. We flourish in the night but wither in the light. And the public wouldn’t have it any other way.” “Does that mean you’re not going to tell me?” “You’re sharp, Judy. Sharp as a tack.” “OK, fine. Be that way. Hell, I already know who you are. I just wanted you to confirm it before I tell the world.” “And who, pray tell, do you think I am?” “You are ... the Duke of Clarence!” “The Duke of Clarence? Oh please! That dawdling mama’s boy wouldn’t have the grit for this line of work!” “Did I say the Duke of Clarence? I meant Walter Sickert.” “Sickert! That hack uses brushes and paint to make his art. I use blades and blood to create masterpieces of murder. No artist has ever captured the public’s imagination the way I have!” “OK, if you’re not Walter Sickert you must be ... Montague John Druitt.” “Druitt? There’s nothing to it.” “Lewis Carroll?” “You’re mad as a hatter.” “Aaron Kosminski?” “Oh sure, blame the poor Polish Jewish guy, you bigot!” “You’re Francis Tumblety, aren’t you?” “That quack couldn’t cut a fart without slicing his thumb off, let alone remove a kidney with surgical precision. You insult me, madam.” “William Henry Bury?” “You can bury that notion right now.” “Thomas Neill Cream?” “You’re going to milk this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?” “Come on, tell me. ... Tell me, tell me, tell me. ... Please, pretty please? ... Pretty please with sugar on it?” He groaned. “If I tell you, will you shut up and go away?” “Yes.” “Promise?” “Cross my heart and hope to die.” “I hope you die too. But since I’m no longer capable of putting you into that wondrous state, I shall reveal my true identity.” He paused for dramatic effect. Or maybe he was just struggling to catch one last breath. “I am ... Therbangale Pindeos Ruppnutt.” “Who? ... Who did you say?” A death rattle was Jack’s only reply. She stared into his glazed eyes, then sank back on her haunches. “Therbangale Pindeos Ruppnutt? What a ridiculous name! I’ve never seen that name listed on a single Ripperology site. Ever! You made it up, didn’t you? Just to be a dick.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Hey, I asked you a question. Did you make up that silly name just to be a dick? ... Hello? ... Hey, are you dead? ... You went and died on me, didn’t you? God, that is so rude!”