Dear boss, I keep living the police have called me.

That joke about leather apron gave me real fits.

I'm down on horse and I shan't quit ripping them till I do get buckled.

Grandwork the last job was, I gave the lady no time to squeal.

Yours truly, Judge a rip-up.

The infamous Dear Boss letter, which gave white chapels infamous pre-killer a name, is largely

thought to be a hoax, concocted by two journalists of the Star newspaper, to keep a dying story

alive.

As with the Soho Strangler, by mangling the facts, so a mere man, now morphed into a monster,

the meddling had distracted the public, the rest of the press, and even the police from

finding the culprit.

In truth, neither killer left any clues to their identity, with no fingerprints, no witnesses,

and baffled police suggesting a smattering of suspects, possibly as convenient scapegoats.

With the inquests of French Fethi, Marie Coden and Dutch Leia, concluding that they were

murdered by persons unknown, the cases were closed, the killer went silent, and with no

news to report, a restless press moved on.

But who was the Soho Strangler?

A man, a myth or a monster, a Bohemian a gay or a Jew, and with a taste for petite French

brunettes, was a fourth victim in his sights.

The police thought he was a man, possibly a punter, with a past of violence against women.

Where was the press, they looted to a suspect?

Described as a gangster, a poms, a vice king, a dope peddler, a white slaver, and said

...