“Mr Abberline, do you think all women should fear or only the unfortunates?” asked a woman in the front row.
“Personally I feel all women in the area should be on their guard, but those who do persist in being out late should pay special attention to who they see, speak to or go off with. Let someone know if possible where you are,” replied Abberline.
“Sergeant Godley, why do you reckon this is happening?” asked a publican sat towards the rear of the hall.
“Sir, if we truly knew that, we’d have a better chance of catching this person. We have no clear motive as yet to follow other than he maybe suffering from melancholia or some other mental health problem and is driven to do so as a result.”
The publican continued “but ain’t it true he takes bits?”
“He has removed some parts of the victims which we believe may fuel his dementia and may give him a reason. It doesn’t help us know who he may target.”
“Mr Spratling,” said a local shopkeeper “is it right you’ve got coppers here from other places then?”
“Yes, to help boost the patrol numbers,” he replied.
“Thought so,” said the shop keeper “most of them seem bleeding lost!” A wave of laughter went round the hall.
An hour long question and answer session continued from the local community until the people seemed to be satisfied and their curiosity had been exhausted. Then Will Bates chipped in.
“Gentlemen, just one last simple matter, when do you think you might catch him?” This was an impossible point to answer but Abberline knew he had to respond, wanting to put Bates equally on the spot.
“With public vigilance and support, our officers continuing to work hard together, but most importantly with your help and that of the Press as a whole, especially avoiding the spread of unnecessary fear, then I would suggest at anytime now.” Bates didn’t like the answer as the room turned to look at him and turning red with embarrassment he was forced to reply.
“Thank you, Mr Abberline.” The hall quickly emptied and everyone, except the uniformed officers, with people returning home for the night.
***
A week later on Wednesday 23rd October, Mary was frantic with worry about not having seen Robert for over a week and there was no sign of him having been back to his lodgings either. Still reluctant to go to the police, she decided to go to the London Hospital to see if he had been hurt in some way and had been taken there. Walking through the arched portico and up the grand steps at the front of the building she walked up to the reception desk and spoke to a smartly dressed nurse.
“Excuse me, but I’m worried that my fiancé might be here having been hurt in someway.” The nurse looked at her oddly.
“Hurt in someway? Don’t you know for sure that he has been and so that he is here?”
“No, he went missing a few days ago over an argument and I think he could be here.”
“Have you reported this to the police?”
“No, not yet, please, could you just check, I’m really worried about him.”
The nurse looked her up and down and then spoke having empathised with her plight. “All right, I’ll just check the ward register, what’s his name?”
“Robert Ford.”
She spent quite some time leafing through a large leather bound register until she came up with an answer, “He’s here in Albert Ward, first floor on the east wing.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” she gave a slight smile in appreciation but now very worried about his condition and went off to the ward.
She arrived and checked with the staff on the entrance to the ward at the nurses station. A sister in her blue uniform led her slowly down to Robert’s bed and told her of his condition. The ward smelt clinical and it was austere by its plain and functional brightness.
“He’s been here just over a week. Still breathing, his body is functioning fine but he is in what we call a ‘coma’ having gone under the wheels of a carriage. He has a serious head wound with a large section of skin missing from his forehead skinned almost to the skull, his face isn’t as swollen now but he had a lot of facial injuries including a broken nose. He’s got a broken left forearm so that’s set in plaster. He’s been in the wars this one.” As she finished speaking they reached the foot of this bed.
Mary was shocked by his condition and already with thoughts of remorse for their argument going through her mind; she wished she explained things more rationally if she could have. She almost missed the sister speaking to her who had to repeat herself to get Mary’s attention.
“I’ll leave you with him for a little while, it might do him good.”
“Thank you,” said Mary sitting to the right of the bed taking hold of Robert’s warm right hand and gently caressing it. He actually looked quite peaceful but his nose had suffered a terrible break and the scarring across his forehead was deep and ugly. His left arm had been set in plaster and was suspended by a wire from a traction unit above the bed and she noted he was breathing very normally and gave the appearance of being in a deep sleep. She spoke to him quietly and gently.
“Robert, darling, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me and let’s just go from here from all this pain and death that seems to hold a grip over everyone we know and everything we do. I really do love you more than you’ll ever know and want to be with you somewhere far from here. You don’t have to wait around here for justice to be done; it’ll happen with or without you. I just want you to wake so we can go away to the middle of nowhere together.” She sat with him for half of an hour before the sister came back to ask her to leave him until another day. Mary reluctantly did so and made her way sombrely into the High Street in Whitechapel and headed towards Commercial Street and her old haunts with the intention to actively seek out Tumblety and settle the matter.
***
That evening Druitt walked into The Blind Beggar pub for the third time having finally plucked up the courage to execute his plan regarding Tumblety. He was nervous to be back in the area and at entering such a working man’s drinking establishment with few women around. The pub was crowded and he could see a man he assumed, from press coverage, to be George Lusk holding court with a group of about a dozen local men. He stood at the bar having bought a pint of beer and listened intently to what he could hear Lusk saying to these men.
“Fellows, it has been nearly three weeks since the last Ripper attack so perhaps Abberline’s patrol tactics are working. With this in mind we have been out on a moderate basis forming local watches of our own around the neighbourhoods and none of our members have seen anything out of the ordinary. We can’t allow ourselves to relax our guard, however, so this level of vigilance must be maintained to catch him or prevent him striking.” There was a rousing ‘here, here’ from the crowd at that point when Druitt also noticed a young lad of about sixteen being chatted to intently by a well dressed man of forty at the other end of the bar. Money exchanged hands between them and the boy left the pub to be followed a few minutes later by the well dressed man. Curious, Druitt followed him out and saw him go round the corner into Cambridge Heath Road; as he did so himself he saw the man disappear into a small area of ornamental garden behind some bushes. He walked closing himself to a point where he could hear some very distinctive sounds, the first was that of the well dressed older man grunting and the other was of the lad gasping and then speaking, “Slowly, sir, just to start with it’s painful at first.” The older man then stopped grunting and aggressively replied.
“Don’t worry, lad, few good first thrusts and you’ll be well used to it.”
Druitt was stunned by what he was hearing but it instantly formed a better plan in his head. He scurried back into the pub not wanting to be caught as a voyeur of the homosexual couple and waited for the return of the boy. It took some time so he continued listening to Lusk and his followers until the boy came back in walking very awkwardly and painfully and returned to the bar. He looked to be in obvious physical distress so Druitt left it
for some while before he approached him.
“Excuse me, young man, but I couldn’t help noticing you leave the pub followed by that older fellow,” said Druitt.
“Look, it will be the same for you as him, £1 and no less.”
“No, not for me, but I have a business proposition for you, worth £10 with no pain whatsoever, just a little bit of fibbing. Half now and half once you’ve done the job.”
“Oh, yeah, what is it then?”
“Can we discuss it elsewhere?” The lad looked around.
“Like where? You ain’t gonna much me, I ain’t drunk.”
“No, I’ll get a cab outside, you join me and while we go for a ride I’ll tell you.” The lad paused looking around and then down at his feet for a while chewing his bottom lip.
“Its £10 is it?”
“Yes, half now and half later.”
“All right, I’ll see you outside in a few minutes in a cab then, mister.”
Druitt left and hailed down a passing a hansom and spoke to the driver.
“I’m waiting for a passenger and then take me off towards Commercial Street Police Station.” The driver nodded his head in response. The young lad came out and jumped in the cab.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Fred Churchyard.”
“Right then, Fred, here’s the job. I need you to go into Commercial Street nick and say you’ve been attacked and buggered by an American who I will tell you about. This has occurred on at least two occasions, and that he’s attacked you and some of your mates who are too scared to come forward. You can make up the dates, but the important thing is that you describe him and you see it through to court too, it’s worth £10, that’s a lot of money.” Fred sat silent for two or three minutes looking out of the window as they travelled repeating phrases like ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I don’t want no trouble’, ‘you’re asking a lot’. So Druitt cut in once more.
“All right, £15 but no more. Five now and the other ten later.”
“Yeah, deal, give us the money and tell me what he’s like.” Through the rest of the journey Druitt described him down to a fine detail and dropped Fred off at the door of The Street. He gave him £5 and said “See me on Friday at The Ten Bells with proof from the police that you’ve done what I’ve asked and you’ll get the rest.” Fred jumped out of the cab and made his way into the police station.
Inspector Chandler was stood at the front desk when Fred entered and spoke to the desk sergeant. “I want to make a complaint of assault by an American toff in the area.” Chandler looked him up and down suspiciously giving little weight to what the lad had just said.
“Oh, yeah? So where and when did this happen then?” said Chandler.
“Well, recent like, to me and a couple of me mates. It was ‘orrible, abused us right good and proper. Too ashamed to speak here.”
“Tell you what, you come back with your mates and we’ll take the complaint from all of you together.” Fred felt distinctly uncomfortable trying to make up an assault complaint on behalf of someone else and was losing his nerve. He stood silent before replying for some time considering the money and considering the reaction of leaving now from the man who might still be waiting outside. He decided he had to leave and come back.
“All right, I’ll come by later on.”
“Right oh,” replied Chandler nonchalantly as Fred turned and left to face Druitt.
“You didn’t do it did you?” demanded Druitt
“Nah, I couldn’t. I need time to think. Bring me back next week and I promise I will do it.” Druitt had started along a path he must end.
“Right,” he responded reluctantly. “We’ll come here next week or no money and I’ll shop you for male prostitution.” Fred was forced to concede.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Thursday 24th October 5.a.m; Abberline walked all around the back streets of Spitalfields now officially off duty in sheer hope of finding the perpetrator committing these hideous crimes that occupied all of his waking hours. His wife and dog, his only dependants, had seen little of him for weeks as he chose to spend so much official and unofficial time in Whitechapel, and now again he found himself wandering the deserted district this time in gloomy Gun Street. As he headed towards Bishopsgate, a young constable rounded a corner ahead and walked towards him and recognising Abberline instantly. He pulled himself upright to address him as they neared. It was Constable Bob Spicer.
“All correct, sir,” he said nodding his head respectfully.
“Thank you, Spicer. Seen much tonight then?”
“No, very quiet it seems tonight, sir. Hardly anyone about at all.”
“Good, stay vigilant.”
“Sir, you know this area well, what’s the story with the name Spitalfields then?”
“Goes back to when the area here was the site of a hospital and its grounds and the name is from the bastardisation of ‘hospital fields’.”
“Oh, blimey. What about the ‘Houndsditch’ just off our bit then?”
“What, do you want, a bleeding tour or something, son?”
“No, just I get asked that’s all, sir.”
“Last question, comes from the Roman times, when the wall of the city that ran along that bit was the place where the people would throw their dead dogs over the wall to outside of the city, hence the ‘hounds ditch’. Now get on with your patrols, you cheeky young bugger!” said Abberline with a smirk on his face.
“Yes, sir. Thanks for the tips. Take care with your patrol, sir.” Spicer walked off towards Christchurch and Commercial Street.
It amused Abberline that this lad saw nothing strange in seeing him out on the ground at such an ungodly hour; a fact that he could only put down to everyone being so pre-occupied with the murders, as he was. He walked alone into a near deserted Middlesex Street and turned back towards Aldgate stopping periodically to try to catch the sounds of footsteps from the alleyways. He pulled a hip flask of whiskey from inside his suit and took a generous swig and continued his wandering for another hour before returning to The Street. He found an empty cell which the custody sergeant allowed him to restlessly sleep in for a couple of hours before the next working day began.
***
Sunday 27th October; Mary again sat at Robert’s bedside clasping his hands in her own having long since given up on talking to him some thirty minutes earlier in her two hour long visit so far. She sat silently hoping he would soon wake up; there had been no change in his condition other than the swelling to his face having subsided and apart from his nose he was beginning to look like himself again. As she sat quietly she became aware of a presence behind her that made her feel quite uncomfortable and knew that it wasn’t one of the nursing staff. She turned to see a foreboding looking man she recognised; John Littlechild.
“So what happened to him then?” He asked seemingly to lack any genuine concern.
“He was hit by a carriage in the High Street,” replied Mary mournfully.
“Too bad, wonder if it was an accident or if he’d found something out and got pushed?” pondered Littlechild.
“Who would do that? He’s only come across decent local people; others that aren’t local are decent too.”
“Oh, yes, like who then? Who’s not local then?”
“Well, just one chap, a nice young Irish lad called Sean Miller.”
“Nice Irish chap, eh? You would think that. Did he know what Robert does?”
“No, most people don’t take any notice of us in the pubs, and we certainly didn’t tell him anything.”
“Yes, but gossip, my dear. If he is a new man in the area and some local says ‘watch him he’s a copper’, if your friend Mr Miller is a Fenian activist he will stop at nothing to not be found out. Do you know where he lives then?”
“No, but he drinks in The Blind Beggar.”
“Right, I’ll get my lads to go and visit him. Now tell me, what does he look like then?” Reluctantly she described Miller to Littlechild concerned abo
ut his motives but feeling threatened and vulnerable without Robert conscious and able bodied.
“When he wakes up let the bar keeper at the Commercial Street Tavern know, if you need to get me for anything else speak to him.” Arrogantly Littlechild walked off leaving Mary more troubled than ever. She decided to leave for a late afternoon drink at The Britannia.
Mary strolled through the doors of the pub on the corner of Dorset Street and Commercial Street just after 5.p.m; it was quiet with only a few hardened drinkers inside none of whom she recognised. She got herself a tankard of ale and sat alone in a corner staring at the frosted glass that separated her from the outside world wondering when Francis might appear in her life, knowing she would now face this potential peril by herself. Over the next quarter of an hour the pub began to fill up with other women, soldiers, locals in their Sunday best and a regular face she knew; that of the pianist who would liven the place up for the evenings.
He began with a rendition of ‘Who will buy my pretty flowers’ after a request from one of the local well dressed men whose teenage daughter stood up to sing a solo version in accompaniment. The girl was very tuneful with a soothing quality to her voice and Mary watched her resting her chin on her hand propped by her elbow on the rough bar table lost in the sound of the song reminding her of her late childhood of only ten years previously. She was staring at the pianist and the girl singing with her gaze totally fixed so that she was unaware of movement in the immediate foreground; unaware of the smartly but conservatively dressed figure that now approached her with an arm in a sling. She only acknowledged the individual sporting the large moustache with cold alarm as he sat opposite her and spoke in a very distinctive accent.
Whitechapel Page 30