S3 – 1: Temple Mount

market with enthusiasm. Starting with the small grocery, their business grew and flourished and expanded, and one of the things their grocery sold like hot cakes, was the indispensable tool and light source of every Victorian household, the humble match. Whether you were lighting a stove, a pipe of fireplace, a candle or a gas lamp, the match was in demand and the Bryants were ready to supply. Theodore Bryant had seen as family's grocery become profitable, and then, what's

more powerful, they went from selling to manufacturing. After all, it was the industrial Age. By two of the Bryant's had a factory in London's East End, employing more than five thousand workers in a time when many Quakers still found themselves on the outside of the law looking in. The Bryant's had risen so high they even had the ear of Britain's Liberal Party. So it should be no surprise that Theodore Bryant's had a bright idea. Here's historian Louise raw So Brian and may As I said to

we very well in with the Liberal Party. And Gladstone was always being Prime Minister Jenes period is Prime Minster for several different terms. So the ultimate act of sucking up my goodness took about ass kissing Brant. And they just said they will build a statue of William Gladstone, and they will build it on the Bow Road. And it's actually gesturing with the right hand towards their fact three such humidlity. You know, this is Fladstone saying you

look at this wonderful factory. So they decided to build it. They could have paid for themselves. They could have paid for a thousand statues themselves, I'm sure very easily. But again, why would you when you can make your work is pay That's right, Bryant followed one bright idea with another. To pay for his statue celebrating William Gladstone, Titan of the Liberal Party, Bryant took money out of his workers pay, and of course, on the day of the Statues unveiling,

he shut down the factory. Bryant said he was giving them a holiday. What he wasn't giving them, though, was their day's wage. And to add insult to injury, attendance at the Statues unveiling was mandatory. All the women who worked in Theodore Bryant's factory were required to be there a dressed to the nines. The streets certainly had the atmosphere that Bryant had hoped for. A crowd of thirty

thousands surrounded the monument. The Bow Road was lined with Venetian masts and a profusion of bunting, while the railroad bridge that crossed the road was draped with red banners proclaiming England's greatest statesman, Gladstone. Leading dignitaries and politicians attended. Gladstone's wife and children, the chairman of the London School Board, and members of Parliament. That even attracted a clutch of lords who served in Gladstone's cabinets or on the Crowns

Privy Council. It was precisely the gala for Britain's ruling Liberal Party that Theodore Bryant's had planned. What he didn't plan was the response from the women who worked in his factory. They did come in their best clothes, but some of them also had rocks and bricks clutched in their fists. The newspapers would later politely whitewash over the friction by calling it unbounded enthusiasm, but looking back, we know that many of those women hoped their stones and

bricks would make some impression on Mr Bryant's conscience. Whatever their intentions, they were outnumbered by the crowd. But once the politicians and peerage were done glad handing and proclaiming each other a great statesman, they cleared out, leaving the neighborhood to its residence. And that's when the working women surrounded the statue. Their effort had paid for it, after all,

their lives, their work, their blood. In a moment of anger, some of the women cut themselves and smeared their blood on the monuments. Later, when the blood had dried and faded, they came back with red paint and splashed it over the statues outstretched hand. In London's East End, myths were praised and greatness was celebrated. But like the women around Gladstone Statue, east Enders understood something else. That their work had lifted the Empire and its loyal bagman to the

heights of imperial power. That price was paid right where they lived in the East End, and it was paid with the ultimate sacrifice their blood. This is unobscured. I'm Aaron Manky. However, they chose to vent their anger over lost wages. The match women still went back to work. After all, if they were furious over a single day's loss wage, how would they afford to lose it all Two. The Bryant and May match factory employed more women in

the East End than any other company. They were putting other match manufacturers out of business or gobbling them up. They poured money into advertising campaigns, and in order to keep them operating, the Liberal government massaged manufacturing laws to make sure that match boxes kept marching out their factory doors, whether it was the Gladstone statue or all the behind the scenes glad handing that Theodore and his brothers. Their relationship to govering officials paid off in many ways big

and small. Their factory in the East End had started when a Swedish match factory closed down and the family of grocers lost their foreign source of cheap matches. Bryant's decided to bring the operation home and run it themselves from a neighborhood teaming with life and laborers. So they moved into the old home of the British Sperm Candle Company. It was a sign of the changing times. Here's Louise

raw once again. Everything really changes with industrialization. People come in from the countryside from working in you perhaps on farms or working in a by feudal set up really perhaps the lord of the manner in some capacity. They come flooding into the new towns and cities in especially London, to work in the new factories. Nothing's ready for them, nothing's prepared, so they just come crowding into London and the rich get the hell out as soon as they can,

and steam trains, of course make that possible. Suddenly we have new suburbs, so you can get out, you can come back into London for work and then you can get away from all the dirt and the dust and the disorder of industrialization, and you know, it's a pretty

stinky process. Industrialization, particularly in the East En where we had a lot of slaughter houses as well, at absolutely stuck on some days so they could get out and they left the poor, particularly in the East End, just to get the hell on with it, and get on with it they did. But like the matchwomen, Londoners were daily confronted with the fact that they were living at the heart of a powerful empire, an empire that made

its rulers incredibly rich. But close beside the splendid homes of the bankers and bureaucrats of London's financial center, men and women in the East End, we're working themselves to death. And it wasn't just the match women who looked at their skimpy wages and thought that something was wrong with that picture. If some gatherings, like the dedication of the Gladstone Statue brought honor to the government's heavyweights, other meetings

were not so flattering, especially when times got hard. Eight eighty four saw Britain in a deep depression. Families like the Bryant's may have enjoyed the friendship of the governing powers, but not every working family enjoyed the same attention, and that was bound to end in unrest. Take for instance, a gathering that was organized on a cold February Monday in eighteen eighties six by the London United Workers Committee.

They planned a meeting in Trafalgar Square to cast blame for massive unemployment on foreign businesses squeezing out Britain's sugar refineries. The London Police knew that there was some potential for a scuffle, so the Commissioner assigned five hundred officers to the gathering. Thousands of demonstrators arrived from the East End. Crowds of socialists, led by the likes of Eleanor Marx

and William Morris, joined the crowd. They're more simple demand that the government provide work or bread had gathered crowds throughout London over the past few years. Bearing that a clash between the two groups would prove violent, police ordered the socialist to carry their red flags from Sir Falgar Square to Hyde Park, a mile to the west. They

were only too happy to oblige. In their wake, ten thousand marchers took their hunger, their demands, and their pent up fury through the streets of Pall Mall, but they were met with scorn along the way. Here's Louise raw once again. The servants of the posh clubs and poal money. You know, the gentleman's clubs in Palma, come out on the door sorts and throw things at the poor who were marching past them. They throw heavy glass as tis.

They throw shoes, you're cluding the gentleman's shoes and they gets the card where they throw them at the poor. You know, go home, what are you doing here? Get out of here. Met with violence and told that this part of London was not theirs to occupy. The marchers were to earned the greeting in kind. They smashed the windows of the Gentlemen's club. They broke into shops and loaded themselves with the clothes on display for London's upwardly mobile.

When they reached Hyde Park, the crowd milled for three hours. Some even tried on their new attire, stripping in the open air. At least a thousand destitute Londoners weren't done. They knew where the money was. They marched on jewelers, stores, China's shops and wine merchants, tailors weren't exempt either, nor were perfumers and art shops. But despite all this, the police were nowhere to be seen. In their wake, the crowd left a trail of smashed carriages, emptied businesses, and

respectable ladies lightened of their jewels. The wealthy residents of West London were horrified and outraged. In the days of dense fog that followed, rumors spread that gangs were assembling on the outskirts of the city to march in. Once again, the doors of upscale London were locked. The city was a ghost town. The Times of London called it a disaster and shame such as London has not known within

living memory. Queen Victoria wrote to her Prime Minister, none other than William Gladstone, that's if steps and very strong ones are not speedily taken to put these proceedings down, the government will suffer severely. The effect abroad is already humiliating the country. The city's leadership, in other words, was disgraced, and much of that blame ultimately landed on the shoulders of London's Commissioner of Police. In the shattered remains of

the neighborhood, he resigned his post. But the Home Office and the city leaders knew that the London poor would not resign their fight. They were still without work and bread. Then the marchers and match women were bound to take the streets again. So it was decided that London needed a police commissioner who would know what to do when

the locals got restless. They looked for a gladstone of the battlefield who would understand the way that the Police of London had an effect abroad, someone who would bring the order of the Empire to its tempestuous hearts. They looked for a hero, and they landed on a man, Charles Warren. He was a soldier, He was an engineer. He was a man who had already made his mark on history by going underground. His father, a major general in the British Army, made sure that young Charles had

a way into the force. After all, Warren's father and older brother were both wounded during the Crimean War of eighteen fifty four, when Britain tangled with Russia over control of the Ottoman Empire, including the Holy Land. The Warren's shed blood for the sake of the Empire. It was their family way. Charles, though had a penchant for calculations, so when he was just seventeen, he was selected to join the Royal Engineers. His first orders were weighty ones too.

He was sent to Gibraltar to join the survey of that strategic shrine at the mouth of the Mediterranean, and Charles shown his detailed mapping of the rock of Gibraltar and his design of new cannons for its towering height, secured the Crown's grasp over the sea, just as a flood of new ships flowed through the Suez Canal. Making your mark on Gibraltar was one thing. It was an achievement that made Warren fit to serve as an instructor

at School of Military Engineering. When the Palestine Exploration Fund came calling and requested that the War Office provide engineers for their work, Charles was their man, and it was the digging that followed which would make Charles Warren more than just another servant of the Crown. In fact, in eighteen sixty seven, still in his twenties, Charles had drawn praise from the pillars of British society because he was the man who offered the Crown a new look at

one of the most coveted and contested places in world history. Jerusalem, the city had been a place where Christian, Muslim, and Jewish pilgrim him had climbed the hills to a holy place. But Charles Warren took a different approach. He went under it. Charles had been sent to the Holy Land with the

heavy task. Yes, he was mapping geography and taking notes on culture and history, but there were bishops and archbishops in the Palestine Exploration Fund who made it clear that Charles Warren's duty was to show the unbelieving world that the Bible was true. He was sent to locate the tombs of King David and King Solomon, to find the ancient city walls, to map the foundations and features of the Temple Mount, in short, to vindicate the trust that

the British public had placed in an ancient faith. He and his team of two military engineers took their orders and set out to match the terrain to the biblical text. But Charles Warren wasn't one to make assumptions or to blindly follow orders. In a letter, he wrote, we must go on the principle that we know nothing until it is fully established. Ever ready to acquire idea yas and to suspend judgment. We are busy collecting facts and have no time for speculation, so long as we can apply

to the ground for information. It was the kind of attention to detail and suspension of judgment that allowed him to make headway. In fact, his work was a revelation. Over the next three years on the Temple Mount, Warren sent home a stream of discoveries, beginning with the news that the boundaries of ancient Jerusalem lay beyond the medieval walls that contained the modern city. In fact, the ancient dwellings were buried under one hundred and thirty feet of

rubble and dust. The only way to reach the ancient world was to dig a series of tunnels straight down into the earth. As local officials watched Warren and his team of hired workers disappear into the earth, they worried that he was opening underground passages for the British Army. They started calling Charles the Mole, but it didn't stop him from digging. With torch in hand, Warren brought to light the actual streets of the city and opened up

a complicated network of drains and reservoirs. Eventually it became clear he had carved into the tunnels that the ancient city used to draw water during times of siege. One member of the Palestine Exploration Fund proudly proclaimed the extent of Warren's achievement when he wrote that Charles and I quote restored the ancient city to the world, stripped the rubbish from the rocks, and showed the glorious temple standing within its walls, opened the secret passages, the aqueducts, the

bridge connecting the temple and town. Today, the ancient water system he uncovered for Victorian Britain still carries his name Warren's Shaft, and it was far from the last time Warren would be praised in the British press or by the government. The British bishops were delighted by his work in Jerusalem, but his later campaigns would be even more influential in earning praise from the monarchy. Nothing connected temple and town or church and Crown like praising Charles war

He was given his knighthood in eighteen eighty three. A year later he was made a member of the Royal Society. So when the Home Secretary Huge Shoulders needed a military man to wade into the rubble and chaos left in the wake of the eighteen eighties six riots. I hope you can see why he chose Charles Warren. Here's historian Adam Wood. Warren had enjoyed a hugely successful military career,

and he was a skilled surveyor and archaeologist. He had served in Gibralt, to the Palestine, South Africa and in and was in Egypt when Home Secretary who Huge Shilders wrote to him offering the position of Commissioner of the met. He was wanted to take the place of the existing commissioners, Redmond Henderson, who had been popular since his appointment in eighteen sixty eight, but in recent years had grown out of touch with the growing force in his own men.

When a riot took place in eighty six and the bandly bungled its response, Henderson was forced to resign, and Shilders, had met Warren four years was obviously impressed. He was no nonsense attitude. It was exactly the man. The Childer's fault was needy to restore public ordering a tomb of ross and to bring them back into shape. Of course, life is never as simple as that. Pleasing the Church and the Crown was one thing. Policing London would be

something else entirely. The aqueducts of the ancient world suited a man with Charles Warren's calculating mind, but mapping the city of London would require an understanding of a very different infrastructure. Because while the Kings of Jerusalem designed its tunnels and waterways for the demands of conflict, the builders of modern London built their temples not with stone but with steel. There was another empire advancing inside the first.

It was a technological lace work that drew Brittain's hubs of manufacturing closer than ever to its bustling ports and beating financial core. It was the circulatory system of the imperial heart, the British Railway. Even as it carved open fields, towns, mountains and cities, the railroad became ever more a place where all human life played out. Too many it seemed like advanced industry and order, the straight line drawn through the rolling chaos of a landscape civilization made manifest in

whirling wheels and richly appointed cars. But the fantasy of the rail as a sign of Britain's advancement beyond human tragedies was shattered in a bloody crime in one. In July of that year, a London police surgeon by the name of Dr Thomas Bond found himself on his way south. He was headed for the railway in at Balcom. A body had been carried there, and although the local authorities

were examining it, they had called for backup. They wanted someone with experience piecing together the torn flesh of wounds into the evidence required to convict a criminal assailant, so they called Thomas Bond. Doctor Bond was Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons and a lecturer on forensic medicine at Westminster Hospital. But since eighteen sixty seven he'd been in a particularly important line of work. He wasn't just wielding his scalpel in the service of London's pain public.

For years. He had been using his sharp mind in the service of Scotland Yard, and he had a storied past as an excellent diagnetician. Here's Adam Wood once again. Dr Thomas Bond was a divisional surgeon attached to a division of Scotland Yard. He'd been involved in so many howe profile cases since been appointed in eighteen sixty seven.

He was cooled down to Brighton to examine the body of a man found on the tracks in a railway arch and it was not initially clear with the cause of death was that he'd been hit by a train or falling from a carriage. The body had been discovered on the tracks of the railway tunnel by a plate layer who ventured inside. What he saw was terrible. The light of his gas lamp revealed the body of a heavy set man, clearly in his latter years, and he

was riddled with injuries. When Dr Bond examined the body, he noted that the skull was badly fractured. There were brakes that could have happened when the man fell from the train violent contact with the ground, Bond wrote, and there was also a jagged, penetrating wound on the left leg, exposing the bone all smeared with black grease. Bond would later say it could have been from contact with the wheel of an engine, but as he looked more closely at the body, it was obvious that it was no

mere accident. Bond reported that a small bullet had been fired into the man's head. It punched in just under the ear and lodged at the spine. A man's hand and face had also been cut deeply with a knife, but that wasn't all. There were a total of fourteen bone deep knife wounds on the man's body. Dr Bond would go on to say that the wounds on the face must have been inflicted by a right hand attacker swinging for the throat. All told, it was a terrible

litany of violence. The man, Mr Friederick Gold, had been on bold the tray and from from the carriage as it passed through the tunnel. It was just the second ever murder to occur on a British train. When the victim's body was found on the ground, one arm was draped over the face. The remnants of a gold watch chain still hung from the neck. Following That chain was crucial to the investigation that came next. Other passengers on

the train filled in fragments of what happened. One man, a chemist, said that he heard four explosions from the back of the train as it traveled from London to Brighton. The sounds had terrified his son as the train passed through a tunnel's darkness. Of course, once Dr Bond found the bullet in the old man's head, it was clear those explosions were the sound of gunfire. The train car itself had its own story to tell. When it had arrived at its destination, the seats, the floor, and the

walls were covered in blood. There was blood on the train's footboard, and not just a splash, but a bloody handprint. And fallen to the blood soaked floor of the car were two bright coins Hanoverian sovereigns, the poker chips of the day. And crucially, there was a man who exited the bloody car when it stopped at the station a mile from Brighton. His name was le Froy, and he stepped from the train calling for help. Like the car, he was also covered in blood. It was on his clothes,

on his face and neck, and on his hands. The ticket collectors at the station rushed to help and he told them what happened. While on the train from London. He had been attacked by two men, an elderly fellow and a back country bruiser with broad shoulders and a thick beard to match. He was taken to Brighton by the station master and on the way he described the assault. One of the men had fired a pistol at him, the other had struck him on the head with the

blunt weapon. Six gashes on his scalp showed the evidence. The police took his statements and had him patched up by the local surgeon, who remarked that the wounds could have come from an umbrella. If that seemed strange to the police, it didn't stop them from operating according to

their normal procedure. Before they escorted him on a train back to London, they searched his belongings and showed him the sovereigns collected from the floor of the train car, despite having two or three of his own in his coat pockets. He denied they were his, but the station agents had noticed Lefroy carrying one other item, a gold watch. It caught their eye when they saw the straight end

of a chain dangling from his boot. When the detectives escorting Lefroy home learned that the corpse had a snapped watch chain around its neck, they sat him down at his London boarding house and started asking questions. What was the number engraved on the back of the watch? They asked him, and he got the answer wrong. His whole story started to sound about as cheap as the worthless sovereigns in his pocket. So that night the Scotland Yard

ordered surveillance on the house where he was staying. Their orders were to not let Lefroy out of their sight. They made a mistake, though, They left just one detective to watch a house with two doors. While the officer watched the front, Lefroy slipped out the back, disappearing into the night. The man hunt for the Brighton Railway murderer

had begun. The first thing they needed, of course, was evidence, any traces left behind that could put Scotland Yard on the trail of the murderer, and in this case, that's what the coroner's inquest was all about. Representatives from the railway company and the victims family descended on Balcolm. They joined a slew of witnesses who would testify before the

East Sussex Corner a lawyer named Winn Baxter. An accomplished solicitor, He had started his career in his hometown, where his grandfather's good reputation as printer of the local paper, The Success Express, made the Baxters well known. Since eighteen seventy five, Baxter had practiced law in London. But that wasn't all by the time the Brighton railway murder took place in eighteen eighty one, he had served as the under Sheriff of London and Middlesex and still managed to serve as

his hometown's senior high Constable and mayor. It goes without saying that when Baxter was an ambitious man, he'd only been the coroner for Sussex for a year and a half when the train pulled in from London saturated with blood. We can only imagine that when the Chief Inspector of Scotland Yards strolled into the inquest coroner when Baxter must have seen that he could do far more with his questioning than just establish identity and cause of death for

the man found on the tracks. He could also earn his way into the good graces of London's police detectives. The inquest jury under Baxter's command viewed the body of the dead man, who was identified as a retired London corn merchant. They viewed the horrors of the train car, they heard from the dead man's widow, and they were joined by Dr Thomas Bond, who described in excruciating medical detail the wounds they had seen with their own eyes. As the inquest stretched into to a second, third and

fourth day. All the ticket takers and railway guards who ran into lea Freud described their encounters in minute detail. For the Corner and for Scotland Yard, no piece of evidence was too small, and those efforts produced just the verdict that Win Baxter expected. After deliberating for just twenty minutes, the jury made their decision the cause of the corn

Merchant's death was willful murder. With the evidence collected at the inquest, detectives arrived at a composite picture of the man they were chasing, and that's more than a metaphor. In fact, they had artists sketched the man's likeness to guide their search. But when Baxter wasn't the only one

who knew the power of the press. Soon enough, the portrait of the wanted man was published in London's Daily Telegraph and then picked up by papers across Britain, making history as what some have called the first composite drawing of a fugitive ever to be published in the papers. The details of the case were spread across the reading public.

Along with some incentive, the Home Office got together with the Brighton and South Coast Railway to offer a reward of two hundred pounds, the equivalent of roughly twenty th u S dollars today. But if Scotland Yard thought this would bring the man hunt to a swift conclusion, they were mistaken. A flurry of tips on Lefroy's whereabouts buried the police forces across the nation. Suddenly le Froy seemed to be everywhere, and multiple arrests followed, but over and

over all these leads were dead ends. In one case, a man waving a revolver stepped into the path of two women, screaming I am Lefroy, and fired toward them. The bullet cut the air between their heads, and the man was arrested for the attack, but it was easy enough for detectives to determine that his repeated claims to be the railway murderer were a drunken fantasy. He merely aspired to be the man who captured the attention of all of England. Even the relatives of the man coming

forward didn't end the man hunt. The killer's real name, Percy Lefroy Mapleton, had come to light, so did his catalog of small time cons and desperate pawn broking schemes, but none of these small glimmers broke the case. It wasn't until a young law clerk walked into Scotland Yard with a lead for Inspector Donald Swanson that things started turning their way. The clerk offered what he knew to

the inspector. Lefroy had gone into hiding in London's East End, where he was lodging with a family under a false name. This clerk had it on good authority, too, that the family thought their new lodger was acting incredibly suspicious boarded up in his rented room. Despite the storm of rumors, Inspector Swanson must have heard something that struck him as

a note of truth. Together with another inspector, and adding a constable for extra muscle, Swanson hopped a cab for the East End and the address given by the informant thirty two Smith Street, Stephane. They arrived as evening fell. Perhaps slightly more clever than some of his colleagues, Swanson sent the constable to watch the back door. Then the two inspectors made for the front entrance, and when a woman answered the door, they described why they had come.

She pointed to the stairs Lefroy's room was above them. The rest of it was quick. Inspector Swanson bolted up the stairs, leaving the second inspector on guard in the hall. He burst through Lefroy's door into darkness. But there wasn't a struggle. There was the fugitive, pale and thin, sitting in an armchair. I expected you, he said. When Swanson arrested him. Lefroy barely put up a fight, and when the two inspectors searched his room they found a locked drawer.

Breaking it open revealed Lefroy's crumpled clothes, stained with blood, and a false mustache and beard tucked away among them. Lefroy's cons disguises and attacks had all come to an end. At the trial months later, Inspector Swanson would recall that as they rode back to the police station, Lefroy said to him, I'm glad you found me. I am sick

of it. I could not be the exposure. When he was back at Scotland Yard, Inspector Swanson was greeted by the Director of Criminal Investigation Department, the Chief Constable, a round table of senior officials and journalists scribbling it all down. He had endeavored to the East End, applied his instincts and clever thinking, and had won England's Most Feared and

Coveted prize. As a result, Inspector Swanson found his name in the papers, alongside others like the police surgeon Dr Thomas Bond and the Sussex corner Win Baxter, who had all worked to bring the killer to justice. Lefroy's trial saw Bond once again take the stand and recount the grizzly details of the dead man's wounds. The details of Lefroy's crime work piece together that he had entered the train, failed to kill his victim with the gunshots of the head,

and then hacked at him with a knife. Finally, Lefroy grabbed the gold watch and pushed his victim's body from the moving train. It was a horrifying picture for those who before could barely have a mad and a railroad car as anything other than a sign of progress. A horror must have been somewhat relieved when Swanson recounted the

details of the arrest. A verdict soon came back, condemning le Froy to death, and it wasn't the last showing for Sussex corner Win Baxter either because just as he had conducted the inquest for the victim, examining the body to determine time and cause of death, well, he would play the same role in wrapping up this case. After Lefroy's lifeless body was brought down from the gallows, the

jail surgeon pronounced him dead. When the murderer's body was placed in its coffin, Win Baxter stepped forward with the jury and held an official, albeit brief in quest. The time and cause of Lefroy's death were obvious. The killer had been caught. The law clerk collected his two pound reward, The investigators earned their praise from the public, An order was restored, and the empire was set right. When it was all over, win back Exter summoned every ounce of

his authority and set British hearts at rest. The law had one the day, but peace wouldn't be permanent. Darker things were coming for when Baxter and for Donald Swanson too. More gruesome sights would soon fall under the eye of Dr Thomas Bond, and more impenetrable labyrinths lay waiting for Charles Warren to explore. There would also be more terrible

violations against the women of the East End. In just a few short years, all of them would be confronted with a series of horrifying events that would come to be known by some as the Autumn of Terror. In this season of Unobscured, we will come face to face with one of the most enduring moments in the history of crime. Just like the statue of William Gladstone raised on the Bow Road, it is a legend and a legacy that was paid for with the blood of the

East End women. And it also, like the statue, gave its cast of characters a podium on which to raise themselves. Like the Brighton Railway murder, it was a shocking series of events that forced the Victorian world to confront unsettling realities overlooked by the grand visions of a civilized and civilizing empire. And like that murder, these new events would send Scotland Yard on a man hunt that has never been forgotten, complicated and ridiculed at every turn by a

sensationalist press. But just because something is remembered doesn't mean it's understood. Understanding requires time, patience, and careful reflection. Everything that Donald Swanson brought to bear on his investigations. Through his eyes and the eyes of the Bryant and may Match women, we will follow the tale of violence at the hearts of their empire. In the largest city in

the world. All the spoils of conquest and exploitation were piled up, and the most volatile elements of a rapidly transform industrial society were heaped in the shadows to smolder. We will walk into those darkened neighborhoods where history was

made in the worst way possible. In this season of Unobscured, we will see the darkest corners of Victorian London in as they are lit by the blaze of the White Chapel murders and the killer at the center of it all, a killer that history has come to know as Jack the Ripper. That's it for this week's episode of Unobscured. Stick around after this short sponsor break for a preview

of what's in store for next week. The inspector responsible for Whitechapel told the Deputy Corner that none of the soldiers were found with any blood on their clothes or weapons. He ended his statement with the plea that was published in the London Times on August if anyone had information about Martha's death, please let them know they had reached a dead end without The inspector responsible for investigating crime in Whitechapel moved on literally. He followed Win Baxter's example

and left London on vacation. The next day, The East London Adviser responded with an article of their own. They saw the way that the East Ends reputation was looking, and they hoped to head it off. A murder in Whitechapel or anywhere in the East End was regarded differently from attacks elsewhere in London, say Regent's Park, for example, A murder there would get sympathy from a wide British readership.

But let a poor man sin in the East End, they wrote, and it draws the finger of scorn alongside the gasp of horror. After all, fearful readers and the journalists who fed them stories truly believed east Enders were all Ruffians. It seemed the papers used every story to

reinforce that prejudice too. If the editors of the East End Adviser thought Martha Tabram's murder was used to spoil their neighborhood's reputation, though they were completely unprepared for what was coming, and they had no idea just how bad things could get. Unobscured was created by me Aaron Manky and produced by Matt Frederick, Alex Williams, and Josh Thane

in partnership with I Heart Radio. Research and writing for this season is all the work of my right hand man Carl Nellis and the brilliant Chad Lawson composed the brand new soundtrack. Learn more about our contributing historians, source material and links to our other shows over at history unobscured dot com, and until next time, thanks for listening Unobscured as a production of I Heart Radio and Aaron Benkey.

For more podcasts for My heart Radio, visit I heart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.