Whitechapel

by Bryan Lightbody

  Officers from neighbouring districts had been drafted in, a fact he knew from the newspaper reporting, so provided he could carry off a vague anglicised accent he should make it home almost incident free now. The streets he had to enter to get home to number 22 were now teeming with local people disturbed by the police that were also frequenting them creating noise searching the locale in depth. He hoped it wouldn’t extend to Gowers Walk and so lose his bag. As he walked along the street a young officer addressed him, breaking away from his search.

  “Here, sarge, how far out is this searching supposed to extend?” enquired a young constable of him with others turning to listen in Providence Street. He paused and then coughed preparing to give it his best shot at an English accent. He was fortunate to have travelled extensively and studied the various dialects and accents he had encountered.

  “Just as far as two streets parallel, either side.” There was silence the officers around all looked at each other. He felt uncomfortable.

  “All right, ta, sarge.” They all resumed what they were doing, moving dustbins, checking doors and dark corners while he casually wandered on within spitting distance of his lodgings.

  He turned into Batty Street to see the road buzzing with activity; some residents on the streets gossiping and making their own conclusions as to what had happened, but mainly police pacing the street looking for clues. Strolling towards him was an inspector, unknown to Tumblety it was John Spratling who had been in on the case from the start. He needed to ensure that he did not engage with this man in any conversation so he deliberately crossed the road and seized upon an opportunity to berate a young looking constable searching around some rubbish piled up in the street.

  “What are you doing, man?” demanded the would-be sergeant in an ever more convincing English accent. The young constable stopped what he was doing and looked Tumblety up and down noting his outer district collar number, a more rural district further out to the east.

  “With respect, sarge, you not being a local bloke and therefore only providing patrols, what the fuck is it to you?” Inter-district rivalry and cynicism would be something Tumblety knew nothing about. He stood open mouthed aghast that a sergeant could be spoken to like this as the young but obviously opinionated and tenacious constable stared back at him.

  “Well, sarge, what you got to say to that? Looking for fucking clues ain’t I?” Tumblety looked round nervously and shaken by the response. Fortunately for him the inspector had now passed by so he cleared his throat stared back at the constable simply scowling and pointing a finger to him and strolled off towards number 22.

  “Fucking country district wankers.” The constable resumed his searching.

  Tumblety got to 22 and stood with his back to the door looking up and down before putting his key in and entering when he felt no one was watching. He was lucky no one had seen him go in. He dashed to his room and quickly got the uniform off and stuffed it under the bed. He ripped his shirt off which was still blood stained and threw it in the sink and ran cold water onto it. He then watched the activities outside cautiously from his window and began to calm himself down having reached a reasonable safe haven. Had the police called yet, however, to speak to all the residents? He hadn’t seen Mrs Long as he’d come in which meant he had no inclination of whether there had been any enquires made of the house. He would have to sit and wait. He rang the shirt out and threw it under the bed joining the uniform and then began to wash to wipe away any possible clues for if the law came calling. Having cleaned himself up and hidden incriminating evidence for now, he lay down on his cheap bed began to relax and waited for sleep to arrive to recharge his now exhausted constitution.

  ***

  Abberline wasn’t sure of where to go first having again had a cab turn up this time in the early hours at his home to bring him urgently into work. By the reports he was being given by Murphy and Parish who had both come to fetch him it seemed prudent to attend Mitre Square first owing to its ferocity. What he couldn’t believe was that the killer had struck twice in one night, or had he? With the marked difference between the two attacks he felt convinced of two possibilities; perhaps the killer had been disturbed at Berner Street or they were two completely unrelated incidents. One other motivation had driven Abberline to go to Mitre Square first; the City Police Commissioner was in attendance with another high ranking City officer so it would only be good protocol for the investigating officer at ground level on the Metropolitan District to attend, liaise and advise.

  3.a.m Mitre Square had been completely closed off to any traffic either vehicular or pedestrian on the orders of Major Smith with constables from the City keeping a cordon closed around the murder scene and others performing roving patrols within a half mile radius. Abberline entered the square via Dukes Passage to see a crowd gathered on the opposite side of the square to him who appeared to be looking at or working around something on the floor. He walked over and as he got closer he recognised Major Smith present, several other ranking City officers who Abberline did not know and Dr F Gordon Brown the City’s divisional surgeon. Brown was on his knees next to the corpse. In the light and at his initial distance Abberline gained no grasp of the horrific injuries she had sustained. The full extent of the savagery of the attack hit the detective inspector as he was about to engage Major Smith in conversation and he couldn’t help but express his shock at it.

  “Jesus Christ. The fucking bastard. Sorry, Commissioner, good morning, sir”

  “Morning, Abberline. Quite understandable given the nature of the attack, worse than the others, eh?”

  “Yes, sir, considerably so. I understand that the other one has only had her throat cut.”

  “Quite so, Abberline. So where do we go from here then?”

  “Well, sir, once the doctor has done his initial examination here perhaps she’ll go to the local mortuary….” Smith cut in over Abberline.

  “Golden Lane, then.” Not ideal for Abberline as it was on the North West side of the City’s patch, past the area known as the Barbican.

  “And then be fully examined in the morning. A post mortem I will attend with my number two, Sergeant Godley. Before that, get some pictures taken if we can, all the witness statements available to us and I’ll go off to Berner Street if one of your ranking chaps can supervise all that please, sir.”

  “Thank you, Inspector; I shall put Superintendent McWilliam in charge of that.”

  At that point both men were interrupted by Police Sergeant Jones who had been relayed some news by a constable who had just ran into Mitre Square.

  “Sir, something very significant has turned up round the corner. Local copper Alfie Long had found some writings in Goulston Street, Wentworth Model Dwellings, reckon they might be linked. And a blood soaked bit of torn apron.” Dr Brown cut in at that moment.

  “Torn apron? Could be very significant gentlemen, look,” he indicated to Eddowes mutilated body. Abberline, Smith, McWilliams and some of the other officers gathered were overtaken by a sudden silence as they all looked down at Eddowes clothing that Doctor Brown was drawing their attention to. Her massively blood stained apron was in tatters with a large proportion of it missing; they now had discovered the killers escape route.

  “Right, take us there,” said Abberline in a decisive manner “And the rest of you get this bloody scene photographed, drawn and fully documented, long hand too. Nothing must be left unturned and unaccounted.” He stormed off grabbing the young constable who had delivered the message by the arm pushing him forward to lead the quickest why to the graffito and the blood stained remnant of apron.

  Godley rounded the corner into Dukes Passage as Abberline was exiting on an obvious mission. He looked tired and depressed being back in to work so soon; he looked at his friend and superior who so obviously lived now to solve this case and appeared totally focused. Before he could speak Abberline launched a multitude of orders in his direction.

  “George, get over to Berner Street and make sure it
gets sorted out proper, I want everything. I can’t believe this fucker has struck twice in one night. I’ll tie the gallows’s rope me self if we find him.” Godley stood aghast about to reply but was cut off.

  “Don’t just stand there; take a quick look over there and then fuck off!” Abberline disappeared off with the young Constable heading east, to where Godley had no idea. Godley immediately recognised all those ranking officers around Cathy Eddowes as he took a look at the scene. There was something that seemed unsaid around these men as he surveyed what was going on and what hideous event had taken place. As he wandered around that part of the square, McWilliams then spoke.

  “Sergeant, perhaps you could remind Inspector Abberline to address those superior to him with a just a little more respect. Perhaps asking us or suggesting a course of action instead of just telling us.”

  Godley continued looking at the carnage around him giving some instructions to the Police photographer who had just arrived. Then before he turned to leave, Godley addressed the question.

  “Well, I’ll pass that on, sir, but just so you know he does address his superiors with respect.” Godley walked off out of the square leaving the City officers fuming amongst themselves. He exited via Mitre Street to make use of a cab that had been hired since his arrival to carry the detectives between scenes. Sinking into the quilted leather seat he sat back purposely letting out a huge sigh and looking at his watch. Sleep seemed to be commodity kept in short supply whilst this man ‘Jack the Ripper’ was still out there.

  Abberline came across quite a gathering in Goulston Street mainly formed by a variety of police officers. Stood within the crowd were Constable Alfie Long, Detective Constable Halse and another young Metropolitan Detective Constable called Walter Dew. Alfie Long was interviewing a group of Jewish working men who Abberline assumed must be witnesses. Dew saw Abberline approaching and stood to attention awaiting directions or questions.

  “Morning, sir.” He greeted the noted detective.

  “Morning, Wally, what’s going here then? I hope it ain’t all been trampled over?”

  “No, sir, writing and apron bit are still as they were found. Photographer is on his way.” He paused and Abberline was about to enter the Model Dwellings, “And Mr Arnold is on his way, with Sir Charles, sir.” Abberline stopped in his tracks before entering the building and paused before giving Dew an answer. The seriousness and notoriety of this case was growing massively day by day and a visit by these two individuals in the middle of the night was a measure of its magnitude.

  “When they get here, son, make sure you make plenty of noise out here to alert me before they fuck things up.” Dew was somewhat taken aback by the detective inspector’s response and swallowed heavily before replying.

  “Right ho, sir, will do. Just a loud ‘good morning’ or something do?”

  “That’ll be fine, just make sure you add their names too. What’s that lot that Long is talking to all about?”

  “Oh, reckon they saw some bloke with a big moustache all covered in blood disappear in here.”

  “Interesting, make sure you get decent statements.” Abberline walked into the tenement block, the entrance to which was glowing from all the additional candle light that had been brought in. Halse had already entered and had a note book out and was copying down the chalked words. This Abberline quietly observed and he also noticed a uniformed Met constable stood further in the entrance way almost lost in the shadows; he was very upright, smart and holding a military ‘stand easy’ pose and nodded in acknowledgment to Abberline and spoke.

  “All correct, sir.”

  “Far from it, lad, or else we wouldn’t be here. You got all that written down then?”

  “Every word, sir, the detail, the layout, the spelling. Bit odd, goes to show whoever’s doing this ain’t bright. Don’t spell Jews like that, does you?” Keeping thoughts about it actually not being an error to himself, Abberline responded to the obviously tired officer, a condition with which he fully sympathised.

  “Absolutely. Who’s been put in charge here right now?”

  “Inspector Chandler, sir. He’s just out there,” pointing to a yard area at the rear of the premises.”

  “Right tell him the Commissioner and Mr Arnold are on way so we need to look lively over this, getting it all recorded.” He hadn’t heard anything and he could see Long looking beyond him to the direction of Goulston Street and the entrance to the dwellings. He heard a voice that he knew would mean interference and he felt his whole demeanour change knowing he was about to be bossed about in his own back yard.

  “Ah, Abberline. Glad you’re here, Sir Charles has decided to join us,” said Superintendent Arnold. Abberline turned round reluctantly to greet them both.

  “Good morning, sirs, early start for you?”

  “No need for flippancy, Abberline, what have we here?” replied Warren as he stepped into the passageway of the dwellings and began inspecting the graffiti with Arnold immediately behind him also peering in curiously.

  “Well, seems it could be some sort of clue but with an odd command of English, sir.” Warren read it out loud in a slow, laborious manner and immediately drew an aggressive and rushed conclusion quite deliberately; in his own mind he knew exactly what the key miss-spelt word could refer to.

  “It’s a load of anti-Semitic rubbish, Abberline and I want it cleaned off now.” Abberline looked horrified and stumbled over his reply.

  “Sir Charles, this must at least for now be considered a significant clue. It must be photographed and fully documented before we clear it.”

  “Abberline, we have enough problems with racial tensions in this area and this could cause a pogrom if it’s left up. This could clearly be interpreted as the murders being committed by a Jew and we’d have the streets running with Hebrew blood. Clean it off now.” Warren turned to a City police inspector and spoke to him seeing that Abberline was about to cross his authority.

  “Inspector, clean that off now. It’s an order, it’s on my ground.”

  “Wait, Sir Charles I at least need that noted before it goes. But I warn you, history will judge you harshly, sir.”

  “Detective Inspector, do not ever cross me publicly again. Now get out of the damned way and let’s have it cleaned.”

  “Long, note it down now and quickly,” and turning to the City DC Abberline spoke further. “And you get it written down and all.” Halse and Long both noted it down, and as history would also discover, in two different versions. Abberline stormed out back into Goulston Street to compose the rage that was developing within him. Having watched the graffiti cleared Warren and Arnold strolled nonchalantly into the street giving Abberline no break from them.

  Arnold initiated the conversation in a condescending tone.

  “Now then, Inspector, no more nonsense over all this, we need a result. Rowing with the highest ranking officer will not get us that.”

  “Well, Superintendent, I’m glad you give a shit. Although if you really did you may have liked to consider that also in there,” Abberline pointed back to inside the dwellings “is the torn blood soaked section of Cathy Eddowes apron.” They both looked at Abberline aghast and in silence. “Oh, didn’t you know that? Well that’ll teach you to interfere with real coppers. Do correct me, Superintendent, but Sir Charles is not and has never been a warranted police officer, and you haven’t worked the streets for over five years.” They continued to stand in silence, incredulous to this verbal attack they were receiving. Abberline concluded his rant. “Now with that being the case, fuck off and leave it to the police to deal with this. You’ll get your result, and I will get it for you without interference.” Warren was unable to reply, Arnold did in a veiled menacing way.

  “Very well, we hear you. But let me tell you Abberline, no matter how this repulsive case is resolved, be assured that you will never rise beyond chief inspector.”

  “Well, sir, that’s the best news I’ve had all day. At least that way I always get to work
for a living.” They stood silent as Abberline returned to the hallway of the dwellings to examine the apron and ponder its significance. This was the hottest trail they had followed so far. He passed the now just chalk stained wall and felt sick to his stomach.

  ***

  Godley arrived at Dutfields Yard to find the usual crowd of local people gathered being kept outside the yard by a large contingent of uniformed police. He entered the yard and saw a body lying just slightly past the gate with an old blanket draped over the upper part from head down to above the knees. A pool of blood had spread well beyond the confines of this blanket and it appeared glistening and black as always in the moonlight. Godley could see a portly bearded Jewish working man stood in quite a distressed state with some local officers one of who was taking notes from this man. He walked over to this small gathering and introduced himself to the constable taking notes.