Whitechapel

by Bryan Lightbody

  Ford stood mouth open, aghast; Godley muttered something like ‘oh my Lord’ while Abberline looked into the contents with fervent hate for its owner. Even without anatomical expertise he knew the jar contained parts plundered from the Ripper’s victims and looked down into the bag dreading what else was in the other jars. He put the first jar down and pulled out another, then another and then another and there were still more left in the bag; he couldn’t bear to pull any of the others out and knelt in silence staring into the bag, Godley and Ford silent and still too shocked to speak.

  “What the hell is that all about, Fred? What the hell drives someone to possess such a gruesome collection?” asked Godley reeling.

  “Don’t know, George, but this fucker is going to hang, no doubt. Rob, go off to get Llewellyn and Phillips, I want them at The Street to tell me what the fuck all this stuff is.” Abberline replaced all the jars in the bag as he spoke and closed it up.

  “Right, Guv.” Ford made his way back through the house to run the errand while Abberline picked up the bag and he and Godley walked slowly and with further troubled minds from the lodgings in Hackney Road.

  While the search had been taking place Sir Robert Anderson had ordered the attendance of Superintendent Arnold at his office that morning for a briefing, as far as Arnold was concerned, regarding information from the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews on the direction of the Ripper case. Arnold could never have been prepared for the direction he was about to be given.

  “Sit down Mr Arnold please,” said Anderson as he himself sat at his desk. “Now listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you.”

  “Yes, sir, as always. What has the Home Secretary instructed?”

  “You are to dismiss the investigation against Dr Tumblety. There is apparent new evidence that sheds innocence upon him in relation to the Ripper murders.” Arnold sat silent for sometime before answering.

  “But Inspector Abberline has evidence against him that makes him one of the strongest suspects in the investigation. The handwriting evidence especially crossed referenced with the statement he made. He is quite certain Tumblety is the man, or one of them.”

  “Well I can tell you he is not. This information disputes the version of events that Abberline subscribes to and that is that. Matter closed.” Anderson sat back in his chair pompously.

  “Sir, there will be hell to play with Abberline. He is very tenacious.”

  “I don’t care! You tell him from me, that man is innocent, and if he doesn’t like it tell him to come and see me. I want you to pass all evidence regarding Dr Tumblety to me for safekeeping.”

  “That won’t be easy; I’ll need reason to do so.” Anderson thrust a piece of paper at Arnold. It was a handwritten letter; signed Victoria R on official Buckingham Palace letter paper the rest of the content seemed immaterial. The actions had Royal approval.

  “I think that should cover it Superintendent, show it to Abberline or any other obstructive minions. If they don’t like it they’d better think of other careers.”

  Arnold was stunned. He been put in an impossible position and had to think of himself, his reputation and his imminent pension.

  There really was little else to be said in the face of the weight of establishment pressure now being placed. He held on to the letter and stood up to leave with a final address to Anderson.

  “For the record, I don’t like it and I shall mark my diary as such and complete a statement which I shall have verified and sealed for any later repercussions. I accept I am a servant of the crown and must act accordingly. Good day to you.” Arnold left the office. Anderson looked on as the door to his office opened and closed. The matter had been easier than he had expected.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sunday 25th November; Tumblety boarded the French steamer La Bretagne at Le Havre following a journey along the coast from his landing in Boulogne having fled England. Using his favoured pseudonym of Frank Townsend, a name that he would travel under until he was well away from the coast back in America; he embarked on a seven day Trans Atlantic crossing. Wearing a plain dark blue gent’s suit with a wing collar shirt and tie, he had decided to ditch his favoured uniform look to avoid attention and if the London police had wired details to the French Surete they could be looking for a uniformed man. He had waxed his distinctive handle bar moustache to change its appearance and cut his hair considerably shorter again to appear as different to his London persona as possible. He sported a bowler or ‘derby’ hat and carried with him an umbrella and two canes tied together, one his sword cane and the other a single shot firearm; now he was returning to the States he would again have the right to bear arms.

  His luggage had been placed in his outside cabin and he entered the comfortable accommodation and walked to the opposite seaward side and stooped slightly to look out through the traditional maritime porthole. He was looking out of starboard side to a calm English Channel, or to the local people of France ‘La Manche.’ Tumblety eagerly anticipated a quiet journey where he would keep his need to venture from the cabin to a minimum and only after dark if at all. He was fully aware that although no one would find him if checking the passenger manifest for the name Tumblety, the police may have posted officers to watch passengers on all trans Atlantic ships calling at or sailing from Britain. He would keep any forays out onto the deck to a minimum and have most services brought to his cabin pleading sea sickness as a reason for his reclusive ness. Satisfied with his surroundings he would unpack later in the day and wanted to witness the departure from the quayside in the cool French coastal air on deck.

  He ended up stood portside as the ropes were untied and cast away by the dock workers and watched as the ship moved and the heavy twill ropes made mighty splashes falling into the murky dock-side water. The decks were full of people squeezing up against the ornate iron balustrades of ‘La Bretagne’ waving and cheering to the crowds on the quayside mirroring their actions. Tumblety scanned the crowds idly as the ship moved slowly away his gaze eventually falling to the front of the throng of people on the quayside. There stood against the waist high railings by where the gang planks had been he noticed two very anxious looking smartly dressed men who had pushed their way forward. He unwittingly made eye contact with them as they looked up with an apparent sense of futility on their faces with the ship now many yards from the dock-side. One of them, a man of about 40 years of age wearing a bowler hat caught Tumblety’s look directly, his eyes noticeably widening as he did so and immediately nudging the other younger man with him and pointing up directly at the doctor.

  ‘Damn it!’ thought Tumblety ‘it’s the Goddamn cops!’ He instantly withdrew from the ships edge, furious he had been seen knowing now that the Metropolitan Police would wire New York’s Police Department with no way now of preventing his arrival from being put under surveillance. He pulled back to the iron sides of the upper deck enclosing the first class accommodation pressing himself bolt upright out of view behind the crowds of passengers and carried on cursing heavily in his mind. ‘How the hell do I get round this?’ He would spend the early part of the voyage considering this matter deeply to get the authorities at both ends off his scent.

  Inspector Walter Andrews spoke to the young detective constable working alongside of him with them both having spotted Tumblety.

  “Bugger it! Right we’ve missed the boat so we can’t follow him ourselves to New York. But we can send a wire to the NYPD and get them to watch him at the other end until a team can get there. Let’s get to the telex office to let Abberline know. Least we know where the bastard is headed for now.”

  “Boss, can’t we get on a smaller boat to intercept him if we go and see the Surete now?” asked the young DC.

  “Why bother, he can’t get off until New York. How could we miss him at the other end?”

  This optimistic view by Inspector Andrews, who would ultimately head the team who travelled to New York, would prove to be unfounded by Tumblety’s guile yet again and fuel the e
nduring enigma of the Whitechapel Murders.

  ***

  Monday 26th November the very next evening and the cunning American doctor had already hatched a plan to create a deception for him to give the slip to any police surveillance. He made his way to ‘steerage’ and found himself wandering around the impromptu parties and small drinking groups in the communal areas of the lowest of the classes. The atmosphere was warm and actually quite humid as a result of the sheer volume of humanity in the area and smelt strongly of a multitude of scents; body odours, tobacco smoke, alcohol and fried foods. Everyone was dressed in working class clothing and all age groups frequented the communal areas with children running around playing tag type games and a group of working men playing a selection of instruments including a harmonica, accordion and banjo. They jammed together in a harmonious way that encouraged couples young and old to dance in pairs or in groups. Tumblety very purposefully observed all the males of about his own age to see who might be suitable to assist him in his plan at a price. He needed to be careful that he found someone that was not intoxicated and would therefore listen with sobriety to his proposition.

  As he wandered through and away from the major throng of people, ahead of him he could see a man of around forty-five years leaning against the ships bulkhead slowly drinking from a pint glass of beer. He was of a similar height, medium build so just a little thinner but with well kept hair and a prominent dark moustache. Perfect for his burgeoning plan. He appeared to be simply enjoying the taste of the beer and not the long term volumetric intoxicating effect; he was himself watching the revellers keenly as he drank. He noticed the American approaching him and made and maintained eye contact with him, displaying to Tumblety a man of confidence and caution. He was dressed in heavy corduroy trousers, a collarless blue shirt with a neck tie, heavy black leather working boots. Despite trying to appear casual and blend in to the surroundings of steerage, the man could see it was obvious that the American who approached him was not travelling on this deck. As Tumblety neared him, he stood up straight away from the wall he had seemed to have been supporting. The American spoke to him.

  “Evening, fine entertainment down here, beer and accommodation any good?” The steerage man paused looking Tumblety up and down before speaking.

  “Remarkably few rats. The beer is crap as a matter of fact.” Tumblety couldn’t believe his luck; this man was a fellow American.

  “Frank Townsend, doctor,” said Tumblety extending his right hand to make an introductory handshake. The man from steerage looked down at it before raising his own to reciprocate the greeting.

  “Bill Weston, carpenter and former Union soldier,” he replied sternly. He continued as they let go hands. “You don’t come down here to socialise, Mr Townsend, cut to the chase. What the hell do you want with me?” Tumblety looked him in the eye and then dropped his gaze down to the ground and thought heavily before conducting his answer.

  “All right, Mr Weston, I will. I have a business proposition for you which will simply mean you have the chance to live comfortably on the rest of this crossing, and then for a few months on arriving in New York.”

  Weston was immediately suspicious, but also virtually penniless and was intrigued by the chance of some comfortable living. This curiosity stemmed from that most natural human weakness – greed. He squinted at the American doctor and sipped some more beer having to wipe froth from his moustache. He then spoke again in response.

  “Carry on, but be truthful, I guess you have some trouble in your wake then, Dr Townsend.” Tumblety considerd his reply and spoke far from the truth.

  “There are men following me and watching me from London, due to financial difficulties. Their feelings are unfounded and they mean just to intimidate me for a while, what I need is someone to act as me for a short period to let me get away when we dock. You’re a smart man; you know why I am asking you I’m sure.”

  “All right, go on; are they liable to want to kill you, or me?”

  “No. Just scare and intimidate to try to goad me to pay them off.”

  “Is someone on the boat watching you now?”

  “No, you are not under scrutiny until we dock, I want you to fill in for me for a couple of days before hand so you get used to the idea.”

  “How much then, Dr Townsend? And how long do I masquerade as you in New York?” Weston was intrigued and in need of money.

  “$1000. I have an address for you to use for a month when you arrive, then you can just disappear.” Tumblety felt his offer generous.

  “No. $1500, you pay my expenses on the boat for whatever I want, some of your wardrobe and I take over as you tomorrow.” Tumblety was not in a strong position to negotiate, but he tried.

  “$1400. You can take over as me as you ask, but must be confined to your cabin complaining of sea sickness and pay for your own indulgences.” There was an uncomfortable silence between them.

  “$1500 and I’ll pay my expenses.” Weston would not be swayed.

  “Deal. I will bring you a suit tomorrow and you will groom yourself down here before going to first class. I will leave a second suit for you upstairs, the cash in an envelope on the bedside table and the details of accommodation in East Tenth Street for you to use. There’s no rent to pay on it. Just live there for a month and then disappear in the night in your work wear.” They shook hands to close the deal.

  “You have a deal then, Dr Townsend. I shall see you tomorrow.”

  “We will never meet again after that, Mr Weston. Enjoy your new life for a short period then.”

  ***

  During the morning of the 26th Abberline had received the telegram from Andrews in France informing him of Tumblety’s evasion and sailing for New York. Although not pleased at this development he at least knew that, unlike the loss of their subject in Hackney, this time they were certain of where he would end up and the local police could therefore be asked to begin surveillance on him until Scotland Yard detectives could be despatched. He discovered that morning from the American embassy that the head of the New York Police Department was Chief Inspector Thomas Byrne, and as soon as Godley had passed this name to him Abberline went straight to The Yard’s telex room by carriage from The Street to personally ensure the communication was sent. Godley accompanied him while the other detectives on the case were still collating and going out to obtain more witness statements. Separating the useful from the fanciful as Abberline had directed was a difficult task. By this the detective inspector implied that those that were unreliable as a result as being those of attention seekers, drunks or inveterate liars should be disregarded, but not destroyed. Many statements, some taken by Abberline himself would prove invaluable and formulate much of the Ripper legend, especially that of George Hutchinson regarding the last sighting of Mary Kelly. Robert Ford found this statement in his hands as Godley and Abberline left for the telex room. He began to read it slowly to take in its content. It had been taken at 6.p.m on the 12th November after Mary’s inquest:

  ‘About 2.a.m on the 9th I was coming by Thrawl Street, Commercial Street, and just before I got to Flower and Dean Street, I met the murdered woman Kelly, and she said to me Hutchinson will you lend me sixpence. I said I can’t I have spent all my money going down to Romford, she said good morning I must go and find some money. She went away toward Thrawl Street. A man coming in the opposite direction to Kelly, tapped her on the shoulder and said something and they both burst out laughing. I heard her say alright to him, and the man said you will be alright, for what I have told you: he then placed his right hand around her shoulders. He also had a kind of small parcel in his left hand, with a kind of strap round it. I stood against the lamp of the Queen’s Head Public House, and watched him. They both then came past me and the man hung his head down, with, his hat over his eyes. I stooped down and looked him in the face. He looked at me stern. They both went into Dorset Street. I followed them. They both stood at the corner of the court for about three minutes. He said something to her. She
said alright my dear come along you will be comfortable. He then placed his arm on her shoulder and she gave him a kiss. She said she had lost her handkerchief. He then pulled his handkerchief a red one and gave it to her. They both went up the Court together. I then went to the court to see if I could see them but I could not. I stood there for about three-quarters of an hour to see if they came out. They did not so I went away.’

  Ford dropped the statement onto the desk having finished the last word and stared blankly into space with many unanswerable questions spinning in his mind. The conversations Hutchinson talked of made no sense as they were all half recorded. So what was she trying to achieve? Was she drunk and unaware of her actions? Had she drifted back to prostitution that night? Had she decided to turn her back on him? He knew that he would never get an answer to these enigmatic questions.

  Abberline and Godley arrived at The Yard at around 11.a.m and made their way straight to the second floor telex room. The corridors and offices of The Yard were filled with uniformed and suited policemen going about they work on a busy Monday morning catching up on their many and varied investigations following the weekend lull of staff at The Yard.

  The telex room was staffed by an inspector in overall charge, two roving sergeants and half a dozen constables all sat at their telex units with their headphones on all focused on sending and receiving messages mainly around the U.K, some to Europe but not normally any to the United States. Abberline on entering was met by the Inspector Thomas Willis who recognised the famed detective and availed himself immediately.

  “Mr Abberline, what can we do for you?”

  “Inspector, I need to send a telegram urgently to the NYPD. Can you free up one of your blokes now so I can get it done?” said Abberline.