Whitechapel

by Bryan Lightbody

  “Come on, Mary, you’ve got to pay this month or you’re out love,” he said walking round to the broken window pane. He knew he could have a look through or reach through and open the door up and then go and rouse her in her bed.

  He pushed the stuffed rags out of the way to gain a view into the room but was not prepared for the sight that he saw, he moved his hand so quickly in shock that he cut it on the jagged broken glass and screamed out. He stood up and rested stiffly his back against the wall in shock and began sobbing with the sheer horror of the site that he observed. McCarthy was also in Millers Court collecting rents to speed the process up with Bowyer and heard his shriek. He ran to his employee’s aid thinking he had been attacked for any money he may have. He was appalled to discover him and his almost catatonic state of shock and couldn’t get a word out of him. Eventually still sobbing he pointed at the broken pane and managed a brief and barely audible warning.

  “There, she’s dead! Ripped up! Don’t look!” Those last two words always spoken to deter, undoubtedly drive people to look and McCarthy trying to establish the origin of Bowyer’s mental state had to have a look for himself. With just a glance through, he immediately looked away and was sick. They called the police and left the room locked.

  Abberline and Godley had gone home at around 4.a.m and with the sheer horror and confusion of the event were late in being called to Millers Court. Superintendent Arnold arrived at around 1.30.p.m and took control of a scene that had been secured by the local duty officer, Inspector Walter Beck and his men. It had not been entered on the direction from senior officers to wait for the bloodhounds to arrive. The divisional surgeon, Dr Phillips, was there ready and waiting with a large group of police officers who were there to keep the scene secured and begin the investigation. He had looked through the broken window and could see that there was no need to be concerned with administering medical attention. While they waited the police photographer took a picture through this window. Amongst the police present was young Walter Dew one of the new ‘H’ division detective constables who had become known as ‘Blue Serge’ because of a suit that he habitually wore. Arnold arrived with the news that the dogs were not available and would not be coming at all. He spoke to McCarthy about the premises prior to entry.

  “You own this do you?” He asked dismissively.

  “Yes I do. What do you want me to do? I can’t go in there, not having seen the state of her,” replied a still much shaken landlord.

  “Just break it down. We’ll go in there’s no need for you to enter.” There was no need to do much to get in. The door was slightly stuck from where the killer had slammed it shut but McCarthy shouldered it firmly and turned the door handle and it open instantly.

  He couldn’t help but catch a glance of the carnage inside and the smell that is normally carried by a butchers shop with fresh meat in stock. He ran from the door bent over with his right hand clasped over his mouth retching heavily; within a few moments of this starting he vomited through his fingers having stopped and propped himself against a wall. The gathered police kept the crowds back and stopped anyone peering through the window for fear of the distress the scene may cause, avoiding blood thirsty publicity and to offer the murdered woman some dignity and respect. Arnold was one of the first through the door along with Walter Dew, Dr Phillips and the recently arrived Dr Thomas Bond. All were scarred by what they saw and Arnold despite his many years of policing the East End was forced to leave within seconds holding his mouth in shock and disbelief. Dew, despite having slipped on the floor soaked with congealed blood, stayed in with Phillips and Bond as the latter doctor began an examination and pronounced life extinct as soon as he entered the room. Phillips considered this an academic point. Bond’s report on the murder scene would make gruesome reading later on for many involved in the investigation that didn’t see the site as well as the grainy photographs that the police photographer was setting up and about to take.

  Abberline arrived within a few minutes of this initial entry being made along with Godley. They walked in as Dew was in fact going out who spoke to them.

  “Boss, that is just bloody awful, awful. I’ll never forget what I’ve seen today. It’s nothing but the most harrowing moment in my police career. If I was you, I’d only go in if I had to.”

  “Wally, you know I’ve got no choice. George, stay here if you wish.”

  “No, Fred, I’ve got to come in. I need to know what we are up against,” replied a forthright Godley. The two walked into the room where the doctor had stood to one side to allow the photographer to do his work. Both were speechless by what they saw and Godley’s eyes welled up with tears with the sheer frustration of having not been able to stop this unforgettable crime and with the thought of the terror Mary Kelly had undoubtedly faced.

  Mary Kelly’s body was two thirds of the way across the bed, and appeared so massively mutilated she could have been a victim of having been hit by a train carriage and dragged underneath. The Ripper had hacked off her ears and her nose; her face had been de-fleshed down to the bone; her only recognisable feature was her hair. Blood had soaked through the bed and had pooled on the floor and those that had entered couldn’t help but to have trodden in it. Abberline looked around the room and saw that most of her clothing had been burned in the fireplace, and the fire had been so intense as to have melted the spout of the kettle. Godley looked on at her corpse in disbelief; the Ripper had hacked into her body so intensely that her genitalia had been reduced to a pulp; her breasts had been removed and arranged with her liver on the bedside table. Her entrails were also heaped on this table with every organ in her body except her brain having been removed. Her right thigh was so flayed and de-fleshed as to expose a gleaming white femur.

  Godley left the room very suddenly and stood outside in the fresh air taking deep breaths it seemed almost on the verge of hyper-ventilating with the shock of taking the entire scene in. Abberline continued looking around the room as well as being consistently drawn to look at the horror of Mary’s remains. There was no question it was her; Bowyer had recognised her remains as had McCarthy and both stated it was her lodgings. The clothing left intact in the room was soon identified as hers too by Julia Styles who had been drawn to the scene and wept as she was shown the garments by Dew. Abberline and Godley could both see it was her by the remote parts of her natural human form that remained.

  Two more officers arrived at Millers Court one expected and one unexpected especially by those working the investigation; Sir Charles Warren and Chief Inspector John Littlechild. By this time Abberline had left the room and was stood consoling Godley, just about able to keep his own composure.

  “Well, Fred, he’s done it again I assume?” said Littlechild.

  “Yes. He has.” Abberline paused looking at his distressed colleague and placing an arm on his shoulder to comfort him. “I thought we had him banged up. I’d got word our chief suspect was inside last night, but obviously not,” replied a still reeling Abberline to Littlechild’s casual questioning. Littlechild went inside.

  “Well, Abberline I have given my letter of resignation to the home secretary before coming here. My position as I’m sure you aware is now untenable,” said Warren trying to maintain some dignity but in truth feeling deeply disappointed, especially with such a ferocious attack.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Commissioner, truly I am. I am also baffled as to what the hell is happening. I am lost in truth. I thought we had him.”

  “I know you and your men have been doing your best. Keep it up, Frederick.” Sir Charles grabbed his shoulder with his hand, gave it a fatherly squeeze and walked out of Millers Court.

  “Wally,” said Abberline “Go and release our man Dr Tumblety on Sergeant Thick’s bail. We know it wasn’t him tonight. But be sure to tell him he is still under investigation and is still on bail.”

  “Yes, sir. Straight away.” Dew made off for Commercial Street Police Station as Littlechild left the room ignoring all those p
resent and left the scene at an almost frenetic pace. He, unknown to everyone else, had to break the sickening news to someone at the London hospital.

  Dew passed the message on to a stunned Sergeant Thick to release Tumblety on bail for his indecency offences and nothing else. Opening the cell door Thick was confronted by the American doctor sitting on the cell’s bench staring at him with contempt. He spoke before the policeman.

  “Well? You sons of bitches going to let me go?” Begrudgingly Thick replied knowing that he had come to suspect this man as much as anyone; he still may have some responsibility in these crimes pending the analysis of the handwriting sample. He had Tumblety’s cane in his hand.

  “Yes, Doctor Tumblety you are free to leave, but, as you understand, on bail and I expect you to return here on the sixteenth.” Tumblety got up and walked up to Thick and was handed his cane.

  “Tell me, why are you letting me go if you think I am Jack the Ripper?” Thick was unsure as to answer; but knowing that the news of the latest murder would have already swept through the area like wild fire he decided to be truthful.

  “Because last night he struck again. More horrific than ever, so right now you are off the hook. For now.” Tumblety felt a cold chill pass through him not really wanting to ask the next question.

  “Er……… who was it?” This may not be wise to ask, he knew he would not be the sort of person who should want to know about an East End murder. He’d have to have a reason. Thick eyed him suspiciously.

  “Why would a fine gent like you want to know about a murder of a two bob bangtail, eh?” Tumblety had to be casually concise with an answer.

  “Don’t know why I asked really. Sorry, it doesn’t matter. The papers will carry it anyway.”

  “Did you want to know in case you had used her services then?” quizzed Thick now deeply interested in the American’s enquiry.

  “Like I say, it doesn’t matter. My tastes don’t run to the gutter.” If it was her, Mary, then he would have to not show any reaction anyway. Thick showed him out into the custody office where he signed a sheet on his custody record for his bail, still with the surety hanging over him, and was allowed to leave. Paperwork that overtime would disappear at the hand of an establishment led conspiracy to cover up his implication in the killings. He dared not ask any further questions so decided to head south in Commercial Street to see what he could discover from the locals.

  Within minutes of leaving The Street and with a brisk stroll he had got the crowd around the entrance to Millers Court in sight; he knew by the composition of police and public that this must be the scene of the crime. The site of where the elusive George Chapman had undoubtedly struck. He knew that it must be Mary who was dead with the witnessing of this gathered crowd and he felt cold, empty and sick. He had set off a chain of events with his own depraved schizophrenic actions and his lack of moral fortitude in dealing with her himself until it was too late and he had asked someone else. He should have delayed making the decision about taking revenge on her until that second meeting with her when he recovered his gems; he had felt compassion and forgiveness. Had he done that, she would not be dead. He wandered into carriageway to cross the road narrowly avoiding being hit by an oncoming omnibus receiving a verbal tirade from the driver as it passed by. He stood on the east pavement and hailed the first hansom that passed; the driver asking politely where he wished to go.

  “Just drive,” Tumblety replied “I’ll decide later. Just drive on.”

  ***

  At 4.p.m when Littlechild arrived at the London Hospital Robert was wide awake having not long been served a cup of tea. He looked puzzled at Littlechild’s arrival, but then recalled that he hadn’t yet spoken to him about what he had fallen foul of.

  “Guv’nor. How are you then?” said Robert chirpily. He’d given no regard to Littlechild’s sad and troubled look as he always appeared that way whenever they met. Littlechild made no reply straight away; with the pause Robert sensed that something awful had happened.

  “Guv’nor, what’s happened? We haven’t lost another bloke have we?”

  “Rob, I can’t believe I’m here to tell you this, I am so sorry that I am.” Robert’s heart sank. He realised with cold shock what he was about to be told. It had to be Mary. The world he knew was about to collapse.

  “It’s Mary, isn’t it?” the tears welled in his eyes, he knew he was about to lose the ability to speak has his throat tensed and tightened.

  “Rob, I am truly sorry. She was killed at Millers Court by we assume the Ripper by the murder’s nature. There’s nothing else to say really. Obviously it’s all hands to the pumps. I’m supplying extra detectives to get this bastard.” It took him quite a few minutes of sobbing and silence between them before he could muster some vocal strength to speak again.

  “Was it quick? Did it look like she suffered? Can I see her?”

  “I don’t think you better hear that now, mate. Read the reports when you get out.”

  “FUCKING TELL ME! I NEED TO KNOW!” He broke down in tears curling into a foetal possession as he sobbed loudly and was now inconsolable. Littlechild sat on the side of the bed and put his arm round him; an action to which Robert responded to by grabbing Littlechild’s jacket and pulling himself into it in a scared child like fashion.

  “I’m sorry lad. Let it all out. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t go and see her when you get out. Remember her as she was.”

  “I don’t even have a picture of her. Did she suffer?” he asked with tears streaming down his face and mucus pouring from his nose. His face was swollen and puffed out.

  “Look. She did have her throat cut. Not as deep from what the doc said. The rest of it is very much the same. Maybe a bit more aggressive.”

  “Why shouldn’t I see her?” He asked needing desperately to know.

  “She….she has had her face disfigured. You wouldn’t know her.”

  “Like Eddowes?” Littlechild knew he was forced to be honest.

  “Much worse. Robert, she hasn’t got a face anymore. I’m sorry, really I am. You wanted to know and you’d find out anyway.”

  Robert was again unable to speak and Littlechild stayed with him for several hours with his subordinate coming in to see him and receive orders to go and carry out. Littlechild knew with what this young man had suffered this was not a time for him to be left alone. He sent instructions to The Street for an officer to be with him at all times for the foreseeable future, ideally a close colleague from his shift.

  Abberline and Godley returned to The Street to personally take the initial description from a man called George Hutchinson, who they would later call back for further complete details of the night’s events in statement form, of a potential suspect to pursue. With the assistance of a local artist, a radical idea of Abberline’s to try to gain a physical picture early on of a potential suspect; they sat Hutchinson down and gained a useful description to immediately circulate to the police patrolling on the streets and eventually to the general public.

  ‘A man of a respectable Jewish appearance wearing a long dark coat with an astrakhan collar and cuffs, a dark jacket and trousers, light waistcoat, dark felt hat turned down in the middle like a homburg or trilby, button boots a black tie with a horseshoe shaped pin and a thick gold chain. He was around thirty-four and about 5’6”. He had a pale complexion, dark cropped hair, and a very slight moustache.’

  The accompanying picture was considered very useful by the patrol officers who used it to at least have a basis of suspects to stop and speak to. Arnold addressed Abberline over this radical idea.

  “Now then, Abberline, you have shown remarkable initiative in doing this picture thing, try to capitalise on any results it may bring, eh?”

  “Yes, Superintendent, we will. I want to see the noose for this ‘Ripper’ making money for old rope in the traditional sense more than anyone.”

  “Good. Keep me informed. I have several interviews with the press to deal with. I shall be at
The Yard.” With that he left leaving Abberline to plan a new tack perhaps to stop any further bloodshed by hopefully apprehending the suspect.

  ***

  Tuesday 13th November; Robert Ford turned up at Commercial Street Police Station not with any hope of returning to work but to see Abberline to discover the truth behind Mary’s murder. He had now hardened himself to any further out pouring of emotion and took a cold view of the world around him. His dream of settled happiness had gone along with any aspirations for the future. He had resigned himself to one mission and one mission only; to avenge the deaths of the two dearest people to him who had been cruelly taken.

  He went straight through to the incident room with his left arm still in a light plaster cast where he met Abberline and Godley. They were sat at their desks pawing over piles of statements, many of them useless, to see if they picked up something new, some vital clue so far overlooked, that would lead them to the killer or killers. They both looked up when they saw him.

  “Young Robert. Come and take a seat, lad,” said Abberline.

  “Thank you, sir. I’d like to read the pathologists statement regarding the injuries to her please.” Godley and Abberline looked at each other both considering his request very carefully; they did not know he was coming and two pictures from the crime scene of Mary’s murder formed part of a gruesome display of victims pictures which adorned one of the walls. Before they could do anything Robert had spotted them and walked straight over to the display and stood transfixed staring at the awful photographic evidence of his love’s horrific end. Abberline looked at Godley both of them remaining silent with no idea of what to say to try to consol him. He studied them for over a minute before turning and facing the detectives who were surprised by the lack of emotion in his face.

  “Do you have that report, sir?” Robert asked again of Abberline.