The Ten Bells London Jack The Ripper

So, you want to hear about The Ten Bells? Oh, you mean the Ten Bells. The pub in Spitalfields with a very, very dark past. Grab a seat; it’s a proper London story.

The Old Girl on the Corner

It’s still standing at 84 Commercial Street, looking all charming and red-bricked. But don't let the cute flower baskets fool you. This place was right in the heart of Jack the Ripper’s hunting ground.

We’re talking 1888. The streets were mean, foggy, and absolutely teeming with rumors. And the Ten Bells? It was the local watering hole for everyone—including the victims.

More Than Just a Pint

Annie Chapman, Mary Kelly, Elizabeth Stride… they all drank here. Can you imagine? They’d be nursing a pennyworth of gin, probably complaining about the rent. Then, poof. They’d step out into the night and never come back.

The pub became a morbid tourist trap immediately. People would crowd in, hoping to spot the killer or just gawk at the last place a victim was seen alive. Morbid, right? But also, totally understandable.

A local legend says one of the barmaids was briefly a suspect. Her name was Mary "Pearly Poll" Connelly. She was a bit of a troublemaker. She even claimed to have seen one of the victims with a posh-looking man. Oof.

The "Jack the Ripper" Makeover

Fast forward to the 1970s. The pub rebranded itself. They literally changed the name to "The Jack the Ripper." Tacky? A little. Brilliant marketing? Absolutely.

They leaned hard into the gore. They put up newspaper clippings from 1888. The walls were covered in crime scene sketches. Tourists lapped it up like cats at a creamery. You could get a "Ripper Ale" and a plate of bangers and mash while sitting where a murderer might have planned his next move.

But then, in the 2000s, the locals got tired of the blood-spattered theme. The pub changed its name back to The Ten Bells. They scrubbed the Ripper decor. Now it’s a gastropub. Fancy, huh?

What’s it Like Now?

Today, it’s all exposed brick, wood floors, and proper craft beer. It’s actually nice. You can get a Sunday roast that would make a Victorian ghost weep with envy. But the vibe? It’s still there.

You sit in the back corner, and you know something terrible happened nearby. It’s not scary. It’s… heavy. Like the room is holding its breath.

The staff are used to the questions. "Where did she sit?" "Is it haunted?" They’ll roll their eyes and point you to a menu. But if you tip well, they might whisper about the shadowy figure seen near the ladies' loo. Spooky.

The Ghosts in the Details

Speaking of ghosts, people claim the pub is a paranormal hotspot. They say the spirit of a flower seller, possibly one of the Ripper’s victims, still wanders in. She’s looking for a customer who never paid. Or maybe she’s just looking for a warm spot to stand.

There’s a famous photo from the 1920s. It shows a woman at the bar who seems transparent. A hoax? Probably. But it’s a great story to tell over a pint of bitter.

Jack himself? Some say he was a regular. A doctor, a butcher, a royal? Nobody knows. But the pub’s proximity to Mitre Square and Dutfield’s Yard makes you wonder. Was he drinking right next to you? Yikes.

Should You Go?

If you’re a history nerd or a true-crime junkie? Absolutely. Skip the jack-the-ripper walking tour dinner package (overpriced rubber chicken) and just go straight to the Ten Bells. Order a pint of stout. Look at the ceiling tiles. They’re original.

Listen to the chatter. Notice how the light filters through the old windows. You’ll feel it. That texture of time. It’s grimy, glamorous, and a little bit sick. Like a Victorian fever dream.

Just don’t ask for a "Ripper cocktail." They get enough of that from the tourists. And for heaven’s sake, if a woman in a shawl offers to sell you some grapes? Run. (Or buy her a drink. She’s probably just a cosplayer.)

Cheers, mate. See you down the Ten Bells.