Whitechapel

by Bryan Lightbody

  “Fred, we can’t do anymore tonight with no new information and God forbid no new victims. We have got to go home and especially you as you’ve been putting in hours that go beyond the call, old chum.” Abberline sat quietly for some moments before replying. He had both hands wrapped around the cup and twiddled his thumbs around its handle, staring as he pondered his reply.

  “You’re right, old son, absolutely bloody right. George, not you the other George at home, needs me and so does the lovely Emma.” Abberline stood placing his mug empty on the desk and grabbed his jacket from behind his chair and swiftly put it on.

  Meanwhile it was well after midnight by the time Robert had verified his identity back at The Street and was making his way to The Ten Bells. He rushed in through the double corner facing doors with Bruiser in tow on the same shabby piece of rope. He desperately scanned the bar area. It was fairly quiet now and it was immediately apparent that Del was not in there any longer, but where should he go to next to seek him out? Dragging the poor old dog along with him he made his way back up towards The Street and the Commercial Street Tavern which stood almost opposite the imposing police station. This time it was now around 12.30.a.m and the doors were firmly locked and no one appeared to be inside. “Where the fuck do I go now, Bruiser?”

  Only seconds after this vocalised thought a hysterical woman came running out of Wheler Street screaming at the top of her voice “Murder, murder, he’s done a bleedin’ nother one. Help, help get the fuckin’ police!”

  ‘My, God! It was Liz Stride!’ Robert thought as he ran past her into Wheler Street to find the next unfortunate victim. As he ran ahead he could see a crumpled heap of woman’s clothes ahead under the railway bridge but in the darkness could not distinguish the colours so he would be completely unprepared for the shocking site about to greet him. He let go of the dog so that he could roll the body over and see if he could render any type of medical aid and to see if she was actually dead. He feared she would be on approach as he could see a massive black pool of liquid around the body which was how blood appeared in the moonlit dark.

  The body still felt warm as he rolled her over and realised she appeared to have short hair and no hat which he then saw was lying discarded to one side. He stared into the face stained with blood as a result of the deeply slashed throat and saw with sickening reality that the lifeless body he was holding was Del Lake. “No!” he screamed loudly in the air and began to sob, pulling his dead friend in close to him burying his face into the material of his Del’s disguise and sobbing with almost no control of his breathing as he coughed and chocked on the tears and mucus generated by his intense and immediate grief. He had several minutes sitting on the cold and blood soaked pavement clutching his dead friend. Dead because he had deserted him to exact revenge for the death of another; dead because the neglect of his duty. The commotion created by Liz Stride drove several of the night duty uniform patrols to the scene of the crime.

  He continued to sit with the body of his friend unwilling to let it go in his grief as the crowd around him grew made up of onlookers, police and some press until with the arrival of Dr Llewellyn and Inspector Chandler. Chandler was forced to put his hand firmly on Robert’s shoulder but spoke sympathetically to him to persuade him to let go. “You’ve got to let him go son, got to let him go and let the Doc do his bit, lad.” Robert reluctantly and gently laid his fallen colleague back onto the cold cobbles and slowly stood up. He was led away heavily saturated in blood by Bill Thick back to The Street whilst a messenger was sent out to call Abberline to the scene of the latest blood bath.

  ***

  3.a.m and Abberline awoke with a harsh wrapping on his door. George began barking violently and by the time Abberline got to the front door the dog was jumping high against the front door ready to ward off the threat he perceived. Abberline gripped the dog under his chest and picked him up tucking him firmly under his right arm and then opened the door. Standing there was a uniformed constable with a black Mariah from the local nick who hurriedly conveyed his message with such urgency that the sleepy and bleary eyed inspector didn’t catch a word of it.

  “Say that again son so that it’s intelligible in this time zone?”

  “Mr Abberline, come quick, Wheler Street there’s been another one. ‘Orrible it is, some copper called Del Lake.”

  “What do you mean, Lake found it?”

  “No, sir, it is bloody Del Lake, butchered he is!”

  Within ten minutes Abberline was dressed and in the carriage and on way to the scene. Sitting in the area usually only reserved for prisoners he contemplated the next step in the investigation. Was it safe to continue with such patrols? Perhaps it would be better to draft in more uniform from the City Police or from outer London divisions. He would have to enter discussions with Superintendent Arnold following an exchange of views with Godley. The streets were still dark as the Mariah rattled down the cobbled surface of the Romford Road and into Stratford High Street and beyond and by quarter to four they were at the scene.

  The uniform presence under Inspector Chandler had managed to completely clear the crowds leaving only a cordon of what were highly depressed officers at the scene. Their faces told many stories of grief for the loss of a colleague and concern for their own safety, albeit this murder of an officer was in exceptional circumstances. Abberline foresaw the need arising to address the entire manpower of The Street over the next few days. Officers stepped aside to allow him through giving a respectful nod of the head as they did so. The scene was perfectly preserved with Del still in situe as per previous instructions from the detectives for maximum evidential purposes. The sight of the butchered young officer even upset Abberline a hardened campaigner feeling a massive responsibility for his death undercover. He scoured the scene for clues himself of any form as Chandler stepped forward to speak to him.

  “Fred, Dr Llewellyn has done an initial examination, pronounced life extinct, etc says he’ll see you at the mortuary this afternoon for a full P.M. It’ll be the London’s for your information. Sorry, mate, you must feel bad.”

  “Can’t help it, John, he volunteered I know but he was part of my team. I feel sorry for his mate, but what the fuck was he doing? I’ve got to speak to him and find out what the hell has gone on, mate.”

  “Poor bastard is back at The Street in your office. We’ve done everything here; do you want us to clear up, mate?”

  “Yes, thanks, I’ll just have a little walk around while you do.”

  As officers began gathering implements to clear the blood, a couple of morticians took Del’s body away and the whole area was washed down. Abberline began walking around the scene in ever increasing concentric circles one hand behind his back with the other holding a lamp seeing if there was any detail, small object that might have been missed. He must have been scouring the area for about half an hour when eventually on the other side of the road by the gutter he spotted a brass military type button.

  It was very clean so he surmised that it could have only have been lost there recently, possibly in the struggle, and took a good look at it. It bore an emblem that he was not familiar with and didn’t seem typically British military. The emblem was of two crossed cavalry type cutlasses both curving up to the top of the button. He placed it in his pocket and headed off towards The Street. The button would become a wasted clue in an unsolved murder.

  ***

  Meanwhile Tumblety was sipping coffee comfortably in his new and occasional surroundings in Batty Street looking out of his front window viewing the varied human traffic going past. He had already laundered his slightly soiled clothing and was preparing to return early afternoon to the more salubrious comforts of the Ritz Hotel. He felt no remorse for his actions; such feelings had long deserted him in his murderous quest for justice and to expand his horrifying collection. He would have to find Kelly soon as bills needed to be paid. He was more than certain of Druitt’s silence but would be prepared to enforce it if necessary. He would leave his
drying clothing here and make use of the spares that he had now kept in his bolt hole. He finished his coffee pulled on his plain overcoat to travel more covertly back to the West End as men of his class and look would generally only be seen in the locality at night. Locking the door he made his way along Batty Street to Commercial Road and disappeared into the crowds.

  Druitt was down at Wapping Steps smoking furiously and nervously staring into the Thames wondering if long term he could hold his silence. Having witnessed such extreme violence on a scale he had never before encountered either personally or as a witness, his already troubled mind from a life of what he considered to be of failure was in turmoil. He truly feared Dr Tumblety and fully believed that any incriminating action he took would surely bring him to his door. He took comfort in the silence of The Steps as he finished his fourth cigarette of the last quarter of an hour.

  ***

  Abberline found Robert Ford with his head in hands, elbows resting on a desk staring bloodshot at the suspect blackboard. The lad was clearly traumatised, but fault had to be established.

  “Tea, lad?” Ford didn’t look up but answered.

  “I’ll have one, but don’t give me any bollocks about it curing all ills, Guv.”

  “Now don’t be stroppy, boy, seeing as how I need to know where the fuck you were, milk and sugar?”

  “Just milk please, Guv.”

  Abberline finished making the steaming drinks for them both from the permanently boiling kettle and sat down opposite Ford forcing him to therefore converse directly with him.

  “Where were you then, Ford?” Robert lifted his face from his hands, sniffed and looked tearfully into the ceiling. He was considering his words and began after some seconds of silence.

  “I was following a lead, got distracted. Thought I had seen someone responsible for the murder of the paperboy.”

  “Who?”

  “Ralph, the lad murdered up by the park, his dog went mad when some bloke came by into Commercial Street so I followed him off but he did a runner to St Katherine’s and I couldn’t find him. Came back and it had all happened. It’s my fucking fault. I’m ready for discipline and if you need, I’ll jump before being pushed.”

  “St Katherine’s? That’s a bloody long way. Who was this person?”

  “Ostrog. But I lost him, Guv.” Ford expressed these false sentiments without any remorse within him.

  “Right. I have no choice, you’re suspended from now on, no pay, sorry, but that I know is the standard line. You’ve got some guilt to carry and deal with, so get away for a while if you can.” There was silence between them for sometime while they both sipped tea and obviously each considered the future. Ford finished his mug and stood to address Abberline.

  “Boss, I didn’t expect any less. I can’t get away; I’ve got to do what I can to help, so I’d appreciate any clues so I can do my bit.”

  “Sorry, no way, you’ve got to stay away. Get involved and I’ll have you nicked, lad, or we’ll both be in the shit.” He put his mug down and forced his hands into his pockets and paced through the frustration of Ford’s futile request.

  “Fuck the job, guv, you’ll have to have the boys nick me if I’m in the way then!” Abberline flung his hands out of his pockets to place them on the desk to lean forward menacingly at Ford. As he did so they were both distracted by the fall of the button that landed on the desk. Abberline had accidentally flung it from his pocket as a result of the angry confrontation. Ford immediately grabbed it and looked closely at it.

  “Give it back to me now, Constable!”

  “Constable? You said I was suspended. Was this found with Del?”

  “What if it was? Nothing to do with you now, just give it back.” Ford took one last look at the cutlass emblem on the button before tossing it carelessly back at the D.I.

  “Keep it. I’ve seen it. Very unusual don’t you think? You better find who it came from before I do.” Ford stormed out before Abberline had time to fully respond. He saw little point shouting after him so would give him time to calm down and go and visit him at his home in a few days, if he hadn’t already got himself arrested.

  ***

  Several hours later during the afternoon, Tumblety picked up the Wednesday 25th September edition of The Star and read the front page with shock and disbelief:

  ‘Whitechapel Killer taunts Police with Letter.’

  He quickly turned the pages to read the re-produced words of the impostor to his crimes, although the possibility struck him that it may have been written by Annie Chapman’s killer. Many thoughts crossed his mind: ‘How dare someone lay claim? Why the hell make such pretence? If I want publicity directly, I’ll ask for it. How dare they!’ He continued his walk along Piccadilly to return to the Ritz from an afternoon lunch by himself and finished the paper in the lounge bar by reception with a large Bourbon. Having finished both he discarded the paper with some fury in a rubbish bin and abruptly ordered a second drink from a passing waiter.

  “Don’t you think you could be a little less curt, sir?” asked the offended waiter, foolishly.

  “JUST GET ME THE GODDAMN DRINK!” raged an angered Tumblety to this, what he considered impertinence. The voices made themselves quite plain and they added within his thoughts ‘Write your own letter to set things straight.’ The waiter returned with the drink on a tray, Tumblety stood up and faced him, took the glass and shot the Bourbon back in one go, slamming the glass back down on the tray from which he had taken it and hissing at the incredulous waiter “Put it on my tab!” and stormed off to his room. There, at the desk by the window overlooking Green Park he was completely alone with his thoughts twisted by rage and alcohol. His mind was fuelled by the dangerous combination of mental instability and excessive drink consumption.

  ‘Okay, how to write this, Dear? …………..boss, yeah, that’s it now time to humiliate and taunt those goddamned cops straight out and that freak the papers reported on ‘Leather Apron.’ I’ve gotta mock them and show them I’ll make my mark, and keep going ‘til I’m done. Add in a clue for them to know when I strike again this letter is genuine. Don’t want them to know I’m too clever always, few grammar errors and a name? Yeah that’ll do, perfect! Enough to spite and intrigue. Me, I’m the one in control!’

  He read the letter aloud back to himself once finished.

  Dear Boss,

  I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no real time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha.ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work. then give it out straight. My knife’s so sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.

  Yours truly

  Jack the Ripper

  Don’t mind me giving the trade name.

  Tumblety then knocked over the red ink he had decided to use messing it all over his hands while he tried to read over the letter with it, but smearing it with the red ink as he did so. It forced him to add:

  “wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now ha ha”

  He was pleased with himself; he had even added the ‘no time to squeal reference to upset the police more than his other taunts referring to the murder of the policeman in disguise. He felt the name was pure genius and would immortalise the mark he was making on the East End. His natural arrogance and showmanship came through in this bold nom de plum. He dated it 25/9/188
8 and posted it to ‘The Boss, Central News Office, London City’, a very American way of addressing not unlike saying New York City. Was it too much of a clue? His arrogance made him think not, history would be the ultimate judge.

  That night Tumblety celebrated with a quiet dinner alone in one of the salons of the Ritz accompanying his meal with an expensive Chateau Neuf du Pape. Whist enjoying this with his chateaubriand he was approached by the hotel manager who had a somewhat stern look on his face.

  “Dr Tumblety, I am sorry to intrude, but may I take a moment of your time?”

  “Sure, Mr Wilkins, what can I do for you?”

  “You are running up somewhat of a high debt for which we would like to take a least part payment, sir, would it be convenient to get a cheque for say £400 in a few days?” Tumblety stopped chewing for a brief second in surprise for needing to come up with so much in such a short time. With the precious stones not yet recovered it would be nearly impossible. He would be forced over the next few nights to try to get information on where Mary Kelly was or actually find her. He regained his composure, gave a small nervous cough to clear his throat and smiled,

  “Mr Wilkins, I will have you a cheque on Monday, sir.” Wilkins nodded and smiled back replying “Thank you, Doctor, never a chore, sir.” He hurried off towards the lobby area. Tumblety was now all too aware of how embarrassing his situation could become but decided to at least enjoy the extravagancies that were before him.

  Meanwhile Robert was close to being unconscious in The Ten Bells, mourning his friend and not knowing where his beloved Mary was in his hour of need. His speech had been slurred for at least the last hour but the barman, knowing him well and having heard the news unofficially as a result of local hearsay, was happy to ply Robert with drink to ease the pain. He was barely able to prop himself up sitting on a barstool his hands slipping up the side of his face desperately trying to support his spinning head and keep his eyes open. Eventually his hands were unable to support his swirling head and it crashed to the bar surface as they gave way and in a domino effect he slumped off of the stool and ended up in a heap on the floor of the pub. The landlord let him lay there to sleep it off whilst the pub cleared during the course of the late evening.