The Ten Bells Jack The Ripper

So there I was, standing outside a pub in Spitalfields, staring at a green-tiled facade that looked like it had seen a few ghost stories. A man next to me, clearly on a pub crawl with a historical twist, muttered, “This is where it all went down.” I half-expected him to pull out a deerstalker hat and a magnifying glass. But you know what? He wasn’t wrong—at least, not about the character of the place.

The East End’s Most Infamous Watering Hole

Welcome to The Ten Bells, the pub that’s practically a co-star in the Jack the Ripper saga. If walls could talk, these ones would have a pretty gruesome—and slightly drunk—story to tell. The pub has been here since the 1750s, but it hit the big time in 1888, when the Ripper’s victims were known to drink at this very spot. Can you imagine? Sitting where a murderer’s target once sat, nursing a pint before walking into history?

The pub wasn’t just a random backdrop, either. Two of the canonical five victims—Annie Chapman and Mary Jane Kelly—were regulars here. Some say Kelly even worked the streets near Spitalfields Market and would pop in for a quick gin. It’s a strange kind of celebrity: being known for where you last had a drink before being brutally murdered. Talk about a bad night out.

A Name That’s More Than a Jingle

The name “Ten Bells” originally came from a pub sign showing ten actual bells—a common motif for pubs near churches. But the irony is too thick to ignore: the pub sits on the border of Christ Church Spitalfields, whose bells rang out over the poverty-stricken streets. So you’ve got church bells on one side, and on the other, a pub where women fled to escape a killer. Nice timing, history.

In the 1990s, after a brief name-change to “The Jack the Ripper” (because of course someone tried that), locals pushed to restore the original name. The pub went back to The Ten Bells in 2005, and thank goodness. A place like this doesn’t need a murderer’s name on the sign—it already has the vibe dripping from the ceiling tiles.

Walking Through the Ghosts (and Tourists)

Step inside today, and the first thing you notice is the Victorian tile work—green, cream, and brown patterns that make it look like a museum exhibit. The bar is all mahogany and brass, and there’s a small plaque near the ladies’ room (no, really) that hints at the history. It’s trendy now, sure, with craft beers and fancy burgers, but you can still feel the old East End sweat in the woodwork. Or that could just be the spill from my ale.

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What hits you hardest is the silence when a tour group passes through. Everyone lowers their voice, as if afraid to wake the dead. And honestly, given that the Ripper’s victims were buried in the churchyard across the street, maybe they’re right to be quiet.

The Victims: More Than a Footnote

Here’s the thing, though—the pub’s real story isn’t about Jack. It’s about the women he killed. Annie Chapman was a 47-year-old who sold flowers and did a little “seamstress-ing” (a Victorian euphemism for sex work). Mary Jane Kelly was 25, Irish, and reportedly loved to sing. They weren’t just victims; they were people who came to this pub for a moment of warmth in a freezing, filthy city. Keep that in mind when you’re snapping photos of the light fixtures.

There’s a memorial of sorts outside the pub—a small plaque that lists the women’s names. It’s easy to miss, because tourists are too busy filming the building. But if you pause and read it, you realize: five women died so that one sicko could get a place in history. That’s the part the Ripper tours don’t like to hammer home.

ᐅ The Ten Bells - Jack the Ripper Pub - Londonblogger.de

Should You Go? (Yes, But With Respect)

I’m not going to pretend The Ten Bells isn’t a tourist trap with a side of macabre. You’ll hear “Ripper!” shouted around 47 times per hour. The merch table sells t-shirts with bloody penny-farthings. Classy, huh? But if you skip it, you’re missing a piece of London that’s stubbornly refusing to be sanitized.

Go for the history, not the horror. Grab a pint of whatever local brew they’ve got, and toast to Annie, Mary Jane, Polly, Liz, and Catherine. Their names are the reason the pub is famous—not a faceless monster in the fog. And hey, if you see a chilly draft on a warm day, don’t worry. It’s just the ghosts ordering one for the road.

So next time you’re in Spitalfields, step into The Ten Bells. Order a drink, look at the tiles, and think for a moment about the lives that were lived and lost here. Just maybe avoid the upstairs bathroom around midnight—that’s where the vibe gets a little too real.