In 1888 a shadow lingered across London, lurking in the corners of the endless maze of Whitechapel. It was a time of terror and fear for he was here. He was everywhere, you could not escape him; for he was the Leather Apron, he was the Whitechapel Murderer…

But perhaps the most important thing is that, although his footsteps were one of blood, he stopped. A formidable force stopped in its tracks to disappear and never return. For years people would sleep with a blade below their heads, for years all would glance down a darkened alleyway, for years his name will forever remain a whisper in the breeze. But the man himself, for surely despite all his devilish actions he is but a mere man, he is gone, long gone… vanished.

Few know the truth of that phantom, of that menace. Even fewer know the truth of the man behind the mask. For a man such as dangerous, as formidable as he, would not be downed but anything trivial. No he will not be brought down, shall never falter; shall never fall. But alas he did.

After a canonical of five, and the rumour of many more the leather apron disappeared. He was never seen again. As possible as it seems it was true, all it took was a Rose to fell the great Jack the Ripper.