“Certainly, this way,” Willis led the two detectives to one of the terminals operated by a portly middle aged constable with a large handlebar moustache. “Smiffy, finish what you are on and then do whatever Mr Abberline requests please.”
“Thank you, Mr Willis, much appreciated,” said Godley as the inspector wandered back to his desk.
Smiffy after just a few seconds looked up at Abberline and nodded his head in readiness to go with fingers poised at the keyboard. Abberline opened up a sheet of paper and began to speak with Smiffy typing.
FAO Chief Inspector Thomas Byrne. URGENT From Inspector Frederick Abberline, Chief Investigating Detective Whitechapel Murders.
Requiring interception and surveillance until Yard detectives arrive: Doctor Francis Tumblety. Already of note in USA, expected to arrive from Le Havre aboard La Bretagne on Sunday 2nd December. Seen leaving France by detectives, most likely travelling first class. Smartly dressed, around 50 years old, 5’11” outlandish moustache and military dress quite frequently or at least very smart. Please reply once picked up surveillance. Thank you for co-operation.
Smiffy finished typing and spoke “Anything else, sir?”
“No thank you, Smiffy, thanks for that. Let us know over at The Street when you have a reply.”
Abberline thanked Inspector Willis and they left the room and returned back into the busy corridor. Word of their presence had obviously spread around The Yard as Superintendent Arnold was waiting for them outside. He spoke to the detectives stopping them in their tracks in the corridor.
“Frederick, I need to see you and you alone in my office please.” Godley and Abberline exchanged glances before Abberline replied.
“All right, sir. George I’ll see you back at The Street.”
“Good choice, Inspector, you maybe sometime.” Both detectives looked further puzzled. Godley continued out of the building while Abberline followed Arnold to his third floor office. They entered and sat either side of Arnold’s desk. He pulled a drawer open and took out a bottle of scotch and two glass tumblers. Abberline knew that by this action something serious concerned Thomas Arnold. He had known him on and off over many years.
“Boss, not for me it’s too early in the day. Can you cut to the chase please,” said Abberline. Arnold poured a glass and had to take a large swig of the strong tasting bitter alcohol before he could begin. The taste made him contort his face as it burned its way down his gullet and sat warmly in what felt like the pit of his stomach.
“Fred, how long have we known each other?” Abberline began to feel very uneasy as a question with sincerity or nostalgia often disguised a killer blow and looked Arnold hard in the eyes before answering.
“Well, we were sergeants together seventeen years ago. Our paths have crossed on and off ever since. Why?”
“Brace yourself for what I am about to show you.” Arnold passed the Buckingham Palace letter across the desk to Abberline who studied it intently.
The Office of Her Majesty, Victoria R,
Buckingham Palace,
London,
SW1,
To all concern investigating the Whitechapel Murders,
I hereby give Royal decree that any line of enquiry regarding the above mentioned murders and the investigation of Dr F Tumblety be forthwith ceased. Any actions contrary to this Royal proclamation maybe considered Seditious and against national interests.
Victoria R.
Abberline sat in stunned silence reading it over several times. He got up and silently poured himself a large glass of scotch. Still without saying anything he walked over to the window in Arnold’s office and stared out blankly. The view was across the embankment towards the south side of Westminster Bridge. It seemed like an eternity to Arnold before he spoke.
“Tom, what the hell is going on? I’ve slaved my guts out over the last twelve weeks within a community that is living deeply in fear and is distrusting of the higher echelons of society, and I have had to do my utmost to down play their fears. Now this? Are they going to write a Royal pardon for George Chapman too?
“It’s not a pardon, Fred.”
“Might as fucking well be. I have damning evidence against him, he’s done a runner from the country and they are telling me to let him go. Do any of them know that he’s gone, eh?”
“Old friend, please don’t shoot the messenger. I…” Abberline interrupted.
“Listen. Enough of this shit let me tell you how it is, Tom. Both are as guilty as hell. My feeling is that Tumblety is responsible for most of it but for some reason Chapman killed the last one. Do they want me to fit one man up with them all, who I can’t find, or do they want the killer? I know where Tumblety is.”
“Fred I’ve shown you the official line. My job is done. It’s up to you what you do. If you continue it will be on the heads of you and your men.”
“This is establishment? Isn’t it? This is Catholic or Masonic. Tumblety is one or the other. Well justice comes to everyone religion, class or any other fucking divide aside. I’ll go underground with this if I have to.”
“Good luck to you, mate. I agree. Do what you have to for those women, but you will have to turn over all you’ve got to me. I’ll give you 24 hours to get it copied by photograph, facsimile or whatever.”
“Good. Thanks, Tom. I want justice. All those smug bastards have never had to see the horrors inflicted upon those women, the fear inflicted upon the community or the trauma on all those who pick up the pieces. I tell you now, the truth will prevail.” Abberline finished his impassioned response.
“Be careful, Fred. Tread very carefully.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
1.p.m on the 26th; Klosowski had found employment working for a gentleman’s barbers using his real name, rightly assuming there would be a search on for the former proprietor of ‘Chapman’s Barber Shop’. He maintained his trade albeit for someone else’s benefit whilst Lucy Baderski did casual work locally as a seamstress. The premises were in West Green Road, Tottenham and they lived there above the shop not unlike their circumstances in Cable Street previously thanks to rapport he had struck up with the owner when he ventured in for a job. He did his best to engage on a friendly basis with all of his new clientele as soon as he had begun work there to create a positive impression and keep any suspicion at bay. It was quite obvious to him that the residents here would be aware of the circumstances of the Whitechapel Murders and would have read about descriptions. He was acutely aware that the night he had taken Mary Kelly’s life so ultimately pointlessly, he had been seen with her in Commercial Street. This liaison must have been reported to the police and a description of him that night put forward. Little did he know the extent to which the police would be making their enquiries as a result of his abandoned premises. He decided to keep his moustache short and hair cropped following the move from Whitechapel in an attempt to avoid being associated with any of the descriptions of the murderer.
Klosowski was blissfully unaware, however, of a casual conversation Lucy had had with one of her local acquaintances back in Whitechapel. He had told her where he intended to relocate them and she had in turn innocently mentioned it in conversation before leaving to a friend who was wishing her well. This would lead the authorities to his door when he was least expecting it and force another more substantial move.
***
With the crushing news regarding the investigation delivered by Superintendent Arnold, Abberline hurried back to The Street to call a briefing with the entire investigation team and implement a covert plan of action against Tumblety. As he arrived at the front door of Commercial Street Police Station he was met on the steps by Chief Inspector John Littlechild. They knew each other only in passing but both were acutely aware of the skill each possessed as detectives and leaders of men. Although one rank divided them, they had always politely spoken as equals.
“Fred, before you go in, can I have a word?” asked Littlechild.
“Yes. What can I do for you, John?”
said Abberline in response politely shaking hands with the veteran detective.
“You know about my department. I am the only one within it who probably knows what you have just been told. I am not going to offer a flood of secret sleuths to help you, but as I hear things at The Yard I’ll let you know. Do you know Robert Ford who is attached to your team?”
“Yes, of course. Why?” said Abberline quizzically, amazed that nothing seemed to slip past the Special Branch.
“Right, he’s a reliable young lad, I know he’s been terribly scarred by the events of the last twelve weeks but use him over others. He won’t arouse suspicion and he’ll be tenacious.” Abberline paused looking into his eyes. There was no hidden agenda with Littlechild; Abberline’s years of interviews and instinct told him that.
“All right, John. Yes I will do. It will be him with either Godley or Bill Thick. He’ll need a little guidance.”
“Good choice. Remember, if you need help give me a call.” They shook hands and Littlechild disappeared along the main road whilst Abberline entered the building.
Inside the police station the corridors bustled with people as always as he made his way to the incident room. Inside the room fell silent as Abberline entered; he looked around relieved to find everyone key was there: Godley had returned as expected, Parish, Murphy, Bill Thick, Robert Ford, Robinson and Mather and Walter Dew, now permanently on the team. The only one he would have to brief separately would be Inspector Andrews who was now on route from France due back at The Street the next day.
“Fellas, get yourself a tea, a smoke, something to eat or whatever but no alcohol thank you. I‘ve got some serious news for you and you won’t like it. But, we must push on undeterred. So take a few minutes to make yourself comfortable and then pin back your ears and listen.” All within the office looked around at each other with concern but made sure they were indeed comfortable with fresh tea and a smoke or sandwiches that they had brought from home to eat during the day between tasks.
“Sarnies, that’s a good idea, Robert get up to the canteen and get some plates done, here’s a couple of shillings for them,” Abberline passed the young constable the money and he scurried out of the office as directed.
“I take it the news is big then, Fred,” asked Godley with Bill Thick listening in standing next to him.
“Huge. It’s a kick in the bollocks too, but we’ll get round it.” Abberline was watching the room and gave them some direction. “Right, pull out all the chairs from behind the desks and set them in a circle facing the display board. Once Rob’s back we’ll lock the doors and only open them for the sandwiches.”
Within a few minutes Robert returned carrying two dinner plates full of sandwiches. Unusually for policemen everyone gave him time to put them down and the entire gathered crowd only took a couple each ensuring everyone got some. Godley locked the office doors and took a seat within the circle as Abberline took up position in front of the display board to address them all. Behind him on the wall were photographs of the victims, street plans of the murder scenes, pathologist’s statements and sketches and a large street map of the area with each murder site marked, except those of Del Lake and Ralph the paperboy.
Abberline coughed clearing his throat, drank from a steaming mug of tea, then took a bite out of a cheese sandwich and began.
“Mmm, anyone had the cheese, they’re bloody good, Rob!” The room burst into laughter as it certainly wasn’t what they expected from the detective inspector’s mouth. “Right, settle down, sorry lads. They are bloody good though. You’ll all be wondering what this is all about and you’re going to find out and not like it. I want you all to read this brief but corrupt letter and say nothing until it’s been round the room. Corrupt? Well I think so because I don’t think the author would have written it without massive influence. There is establishment or society membership involvement here, maybe even complicity and we are being told to sever a key line of enquiry. But I have a plan to deal with this. Before I voice that, I welcome comments or questions from the floor.” The room sat in silence as the letter did the rounds with those gathered who read it looking around the room and up to Abberline in disbelief. It forced several to light a cigarette to calm tensions that they could feel building within them. The letter returned back to the front edge of the circle and into Abberline’s hands. Bill Thick was the first to speak.
“Guv’nor, what the hell is going on?”
“Bill, that’s what this meeting is all about. I am forced to trust that none of you are linked to organisations such as the catholic guild or the masons. If you are I stand to end up in the Tower of London and so do some of you if we pursue a covert line of enquiry against Dr Tumblety. For that reason I ask all of you to display the loyalty and integrity that you have so far and leave the room and the investigation if any of you are members of either society.” Abberline’s words seemed to echo around the room as the atmosphere could be cut with a knife. Abberline quite deliberately said nothing for what seemed to all like an eternity but was in fact only half a minute as he made eye contact with all in turn looking around the office. With the assembled team still sat firmly he continued. “So from here on in officially you can all only go on the hunt for George Chapman and evidence against him regarding any of the murders. But I will be selecting a small team to continue the investigation against Tumblety. You will have the right to refuse if I ask you, but I ask any of you to say nothing of any ongoing enquiry of this nature. If you do, all of us will be at risk and I can assure you anyone that betrays the team will be taken down with us.” He scanned the room again ensuring he made eye contact with all gathered. Again the detectives and those assisting looked resolute.
“Good. Chapman must be found as he most likely responsible for the murder of Mary Kelly, but motivation? That remains unknown. That we may only discover by arrest and interview. Tumblety will be found but, gentlemen, I cannot guarantee justice for him.” Robert listened intently, he was determined that both men would be brought to justice. “Saturate the area around Cable Street. I want any lead regarding Chapman followed. He must be found. To that end I want everyone visiting every barber’s establishment in London to see if he’s moved on or to find any trace of him having passed through, Bill and George will supervise those enquiries.” He said pointing to Godley and Thick. “Fellas, any questions?”
Everyone wanted to ask, but no one dared to, who was going to pursue the Tumblety enquiry. Most realised from Abberline’s as yet silence on this matter that he wanted to keep the risk to each man to a minimum. They all looked around the room shaking heads, most still stunned from the revelation of the Royal intervention in unfathomable circumstances.
“Good, you two,” pointing at Thick and Godley “sort out teams to go out and do these enquiries, no stone unturned.” As the gathered began to break up from the circle Abberline grabbed Godley’s arm and whispered quietly into his ear. “Make sure Robert is tasked by you because I need to use him.” Godley looked at him and nodded in instant recognition of what the detective inspector was implying.
Abberline then left the office without saying a word to anyone as to where he was going.
“Where do you think he’s off to then, George?” said Bill Thick looking on curiously as Abberline left the office.
“No idea, leave him to it. He’s close to cracking despite his front I think,” replied a concerned Godley.
The detective inspector was actually making his way to a local main post office to go and send a telegram to the head of the N.Y.P.D to warn him of the latest development and contact him directly.
He arrived at the post office in Whitechapel High Street after a casual ten minute stroll south along Commercial Street. On route he passed so many now ominous sites that he once treated with nonchalant familiarity; The Ten Bells, Millers Court, Hanbury Street, The Britannia. All now permanently etched on his psyche as a result to their connections with Jack the Ripper. Abberline was determined to bring both his key suspects to just
ice by legal means or otherwise.
In the post office the clerk instantly recognised the celebrated policeman.
“Hello, Mr Abberline. What can we do for you today then, sir?” Abberline sometimes felt uncomfortable with his local notoriety.
“I have a brief telegram to be sent to a colleague in New York.”
“Oh, really, how flattering you come here and not to your telex office in Scotland Yard.” Abberline knew that the clerk would find this curious.
“I was passing and you were obviously closer. I don’t have a lot of time can we get going with it?” He knew he had to get word to Thomas Byrne as soon as possible.
“Certainly, Mr Abberline.” Abberline had to word the message carefully. He did it knowing it would sound a little odd to the clerk. He was sure that the almost celebrity status he had locally would prevent the post office staff taking the matter up with other officers from The Street or even Scotland Yard. He began to dictate the message to the clerk.
Mr Byrne,
Due to political conflicts you maybe asked to not pursue the investigation of Dr Tumblety. This is a cover to avoid attention. On my authority please keep this man under observation until Inspector Andrews arrives and please extend him all available assistance. Don’t hesitate to contact ME directly to maintain discretion.
Frederick Abberline (Insp).
“Will that be all, Mr Abberline?” asked the clerk having taken down the message on post office notation paper.
“No, destroy the copies of this telegram once it is sent, a matter of national security,” replied an official sounding Abberline.
“Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you.”
Abberline left the Whitechapel post office and began to stroll casually back towards The Street. As he walked he was aware of a carriage pulling up alongside him; looking round he saw it was John Netley.
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