Fifteen years ago, I visited the National Gallery of Ireland in Dublin. I happened upon the section devoted to 19th century painting where there was a rather small painting, remarkably well painted, of a man who looked young and yet whose diabolical energy – horridness, cruelty, meanness – struck me so, that it overwhelmed me. I read the label: it was a self-portrait of Walter Sickert. I was mesmerised by the dreadful aura that that tiny little painting emanated. And I remembered having read that the painter ran in the same social Circle as – and he would have known – Jack-the-Ripper, amongst doctors, if memory serves, artists, lawyers, and the Duke of Clarence too. As I contemplated that paining, I had the intuition that Walter Sickert was Jack-the-Ripper. And, what did I see this morning, as I read the Daily Mail? – My fifteen years old suspicion has now been confirmed in a newly published book.