By the time he could drag himself through the wedged door and climb over the wardrobe, the wave of cold night air from the open window told Geraint that Catherine Eddowes’ attacker was gone. He half-stumbled over the barrier and slid to his knees in the slick pool of fresh blood. Gore covered his hands and the sleeves of his jacket, and soaked the legs of his trousers. To get to the window and look out for any fleeing figure he would have had to climb over the bed. It was a prospect he couldn’t stomach.