A ripping time

Sauntering through the chapel at Windsor Castle - an excellent place for a day out, in case you're wondering, with all the understated majesty you'd expect from a thousand years of people to whom bright crimson and gold are the height of good taste - the she-David and I came across the tomb of Queen Victoria's Grandson, Prince Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence.

He was a favourite of Victoria and she was devastated when he died, and so she spent an absolute arm and a leg on his tomb which is about the same proportions of a large-sized garage and fitted out entirely in marble. It's the sort of place I rather expect a grateful nation will give me when I snuff it.
We wandered over to take a look at it and the she-David, in carrying tones reminiscent of a Billingsgate fishwife which echoed throughout the building, loudly announced; "'Ere! Albert Victor! Weren't 'e Jack the Ripper?"
There was one of those long silences of the sort you get when you loudly announce that the fellow in the grave in front of you was a notorious serial killer and then the couple standing next to us turned and chipped in.

"Are you sure?", the male half said.
"Well", I said. "History is full of theories about..." He cut me off.
"Because I thought he was the Yorkshire Ripper", he continued.
He wife nodded. "Yeah, definitely. Yorkshire ripper", she announced in the confident tones of one who is utterly certain of their facts.
I stood and blinked like Ed Balls at this unexpected turn in the conversation.
"In fact", she continued, "I think it's a bit sick. They shouldn't have given him a fancy grave like this after what he did."
Her husband nodded. "Bastard", he muttered.
"I think you're wrong", I said.
"Eh?"
"Peter Sutcliffe is buried in the Nave, over there". I pointed. "Next to King George the Fifth".