“I am your husband and your meal ticket. Do what the hell I say or I shall cast you into the streets. Pack the minimum you need for us to go away. You have five minutes.” She was choking as he spoke and tried to release his grip but without success. She fought for breath and tried pointlessly to speak as he grasped her for several seconds once he had finished speaking. He then flung her away and she landed on the floor clasping her throat and fighting to regain her breath; she looked up hatefully at him but knew this vile and cruel man still, at that moment, had a hold over her. She got up turning her back on him not wanting him to see her eyes welling up with tears of fear and left the room to follow his demand.
In reality she possessed little so to pack the essentials in a few minutes was not a difficult task. Klosowski was soon in the room with her packing his own belongings hurriedly in preparation for what to her was going to be an imminent departure. He put on his suit as he got to it. She had wondered why he had come up having discarded his working clothes.
“What has happened, Severin? Why are we going now?”
“Shut up and do as I say. I will tell you when we are far from here.”
The rooms above the shop were bland and austere and not at all homely. They had no furniture of their own to be discarding so clothing was virtually all they owned. A fire was burning in the main living room so Lucy felt the cold as they retreated to the unheated cold bedroom with its battered wardrobe and chest of drawers. Emptying her clothing into the old case didn’t take long.
“We have some food left in the pantry as I only bought us some yesterday. Should I take that with us?” Klosowski thought for a moment. It would save them stopping too soon to eat if they felt hungry.
“Yes, put it in a muslin sack, but only what we can eat without preparation. We’ll be getting a bus and then a train I think. I need, err… want to leave London. There is no future for me here.”
He knew he was certainly right in that assumption. Having killed further the only future he faced was that at the end of a rope. He pulled up the mattress and grabbed a leather satchel from under it. It contained his savings, a not inconsiderable amount of cash, and it would be essential to get away.
“Are you done?” He menacingly demanded of Lucy. She was clutching the muslin sack now containing some bread, cheese and ham.
“Yes,” she said with dry eyes and ready to pick up her case.
“Good. We must go.”
He grabbed her case and ushered her with a nod of his head out of the door.
“Do not go through the shop. Leave via the back gate. We will go straight into West Green Road from there and down to the High Street to catch a bus to the railway station.” She knew that it was pointless to ask any question as to why so ruefully nodded her head in recognition of the instructions.
Within ten minutes they were on an omnibus and heading off, little did Lucy know, as fugitives. As he sat down a cold chill hit him as he realised the huge and potentially fatal mistake he had made. The policeman was probably still alive and the only living witness to attacks in the barbers shop, the only witness to any of his atrocities. He was a professional and word would be around the authorities fast; word of his description but also his name and his nationality. He knew they needed to be out of not only London but also England within the next twenty-four hours before his details were posted at all ports. He remained deep in thought as the horse drawn bus passed rhythmically over the cobbled Tottenham streets.
***
Friday 30th November 9.a.m; Robert Ford was lying in his bed still recovering some two days after the fight of his life when he heard a heavy knocking on his lodgings door.
“Rob, you in there, lad?” called Abberline. Then the door opened and Abberline and Godley strolled in. When at home Robert rarely kept the door locked. “How are you then, boy?” brashly asked Abberline.
“All right now, Guv, thanks to the local Stepney boys. They got me stripped off and into one of their cells wrapped in blankets. Took me a good few hours to warm up but then I was all right. I told Inspector Chandler what happened. S’pose he told you too?” Abberline gave a knowing glance at Godley and nodded.
“Yes. He did and I’m sorry you took the brunt of it again. Do you know what happened to the box?”
“I can only guess. Sorry, sir.”
“The whole bloody lot pulped. Nothing recoverable at all. Well, as you can imagine our hand has been completely forced where Tumblety is concerned. We have no evidence and no case. The lads are pursuing this Chapman bloke now. He might help us further of course. Want anything here?”
“No thanks, Guv, I’ll be back in tomorrow.”
“Good, lad. I need you.” Abberline nodded at Godley and they had left no sooner than they had arrived it seemed.
Feeling a little lost, Robert decided to have a sort through in his room, something he had not had the chance to do properly for weeks. He persistently had been throwing discarded clothes into the base of the wardrobe an area which had been obscured by several hanging garments so he had not seen the very bottom for some time. The doors were only pushed to and not properly shut; they couldn’t be because of the pile of clothing obstructing the doors from closing. ‘Bloody hell’ he thought as he pulled the doors apart and the pile spilled out on the floor. It included uniform, police shirts as well as some worn casual clothes of his own, all of which appeared to need laundering. He bent down and pulled them all out and now low down he could see virtually to the rear of the wardrobe, but not quite with the poor lighting and shadow cast by the hanging garments. He leaned in with his right arm to sweep for odd socks or anything that may be left and was surprised to feel something paper which felt quite thick to touch.
He took hold of it and pulled it out and found it to be a thickly stuffed white envelope. He had never seen it before and was suspicious of its contents; he reached in and could feel it was further paper items and pulled out to his amazement a thick wad of bank notes in large denominations. At the top of the pile were the beginnings of a hand written note. It must have been penned by Mary by its opening sentiment, the writing was poor and quite uneducated but he treasured the few words upon it as they were the last communication from her.
Deer Robert,
Pleese find here mony that will be for us
When we move from london. When we
Next meat face to face I will tell you where
It is form but leave this note so you know it
is for Us. I look forward to
And the note ended. It appeared that she may have run out of ink as the last word seemed to fade out. Robert on his knees initially collapsed back onto the floor in a seated position as one hand held the letter while the other one came to grip his forehead in total disbelief. Where had the money come from? What it was for seemed more than obvious, but how had Mary obtained just short of £3000 seemingly from no where. His hand ran from his forehead through his hair, his fingernails brushing his scalp at the rear of his head as he fell into deep thought. He rubbed his unshaven face as he considered how he could use the money to perhaps avenge her death; the only thing he knew for certain was that it would help secure his own immediate future if he needed it to. He placed the money back in the envelope which he then put in an old beaten up leather satchel bag he had and put it back in the base of the wardrobe. He mind numbingly carried on sorting out his clothing as he thought about the money and its origins.
***
Abberline and Godley went directly to the Whitechapel post office for a fresh message to be sent to the New York Police Department via telex regarding the Tumblety investigation, and away from the prying eyes in Scotland Yard. If caught, they were both acutely aware that their careers would be hanging by a thread.
“Well you know what the definition of a career is, Fred?” joked Godley on the way, “A head long rush down hill, mate!”
Abberline needed to inform Thomas Byrnes of a particular passenger to check when La Bretagne arrived as a result of the events o
f the night of the Kelly murder. Tumblety had of course been taken into custody over the false allegations of indecent assaults and had foolishly given the name Frank Townsend when first interviewed; the name that Abberline had found on the receipt for the Atlantic crossing. The Transatlantic Line had not yet provided a passenger manifest to Abberline and in the wake of the events regarding the Tumblety investigation he could not really pursue it further, but he at least knew the names that his American counterparts should look for. He would have to word his message carefully so as not to arouse too much suspicion in Thomas Byrnes when requiring that he replies only be to himself personally via the post office. Before going to the telegram operator he worded the message methodically with Godley reading over its contents.
Chief Inspector Byrnes,
Be advised of the possible presence of a Frank Townsend arriving with the Transatlantic Line on Sunday. If he is on board he is a key suspect in the Whitechapel murders and must be traced for questioning. Please ascertain if he is present, which I am sure he is, as any address he ventures to is crucial pending the arrival of Scotland Yard detectives. Please reply to me via this postal address, Scotland Yard too busy to give me prompt service. Townsend/Tumblety are one and the same.
Frederick Abberline, Inspector.
Abberline looked up at Godley once finished who gave him an accepting nod of approval. He took it to the clerk and within a few minutes it was gone. They returned to The Street to discover the latest on the Chapman enquiry and were in for some extremely mixed news.
Over one hundred additional policemen had now flooded into the Whitechapel area to assist in door to door enquiries and to try to calm the general feeling amongst the populace by providing even more patrols. It was the enquiries of one of these officers drafted in during a casual conversation with a worried local woman in Cable Street that had brought some vital news. Constable Ben England from Forest Gate division had engaged a woman resident from Cable Street in casual conversation when she had asked him if anyone was as yet in custody.
“No, madam, afraid not. But we’re working on it, like.”
“So, where’s old Chapman gone then, or ain’t you a local bloke?” asked the woman.
“Don’t know who you mean, love. I’m from Forest Gate just brought in to help, like.”
“Oh. Do you want to know where he is?”
“Every thing helps of course….?”
“Well. His wife, Lucy, said he were in a bit of trouble. Don’t know what sort, but she said they was going off to Tottenham to stay away for a bit. He’s a right shit. Horrible to her, and always impolite to his customers. Good job he’s fucked off.” The constable listened to all that she said intently; he knew that the detectives would relish hearing this information and he was keen to get back and report it.
The dire news of the brutal events in the barber’s shop had also reached the Ripper incident room. This was a massive development and needed to be acted on immediately along with PC England’s intelligence which only confirmed that their second key suspect must be in Tottenham. The wounding of the constable and the murder’s of the two civilians needed the intervention of Abberline’s team immediately with it’s relevant links to the Whitechapel events; a foreign suspect, in a barber’s in Tottenham, the missing Cable Street barber having gone to Tottenham and the wounding of a constable who had been asking the right questions of the wrong person when he had been in a vulnerable position. With this news Abberline and Godley immediately left with Bill Thick and Murphy for Tottenham, all of them deciding to draw revolvers and join the manhunt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday 30th November and Richard Mansfield’s ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ had closed. Initially embittered by the closure of what was hailed as a spectacular performance and theatrical success, he had lifted his own spirits by throwing himself wholeheartedly into a new version of Shakespeare’s ‘Richard III’. Mansfield was a believer, as were many of the age, in spiritualism and had decided to seek the guidance of a noted London psychic again. He had decided to convene with Robert Lees at the Café Royal at the bottom of Regents Street just prior to Piccadilly Circus. They were aware of each other’s notoriety and formally introduced themselves for a second time in the foyer before taking their table for afternoon tea.
They were shown to a comfortable table on the first floor overlooking the bustling thoroughfare outside surrounded by many others of London’s upper class society. They both knew some of the other diners that were also taking tea there that afternoon; Philanthropist Dr Thomas Barnado, colourful London Coroner Dr Wynne Baxter, Miss Lilly Langtree, and painter Walter Sickert who was taking tea with and at the request of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale, Prince Albert Victor. They perused the menu and ordered a selection of sandwiches, scones with jam, cream and Cornish butter and a pot of jasmine tea to be served without milk between them.
“How very civilised and English, Robert.” Remarked Mansfield glibly.
“Well, you know. When in Rome and all that, old boy. I thought you might appreciate sampling our traditions.”
“Certainly. I have sampled so much of your culture so far. Your overbearing police, the misleading and ill reporting press and the fickle London audiences.”
“Well, one can apologise for the fact that fate did conspire to bring these forces together against you.”
“Well I am glad you bring up the matter of fate. You obviously received my letter regarding my request for further clairvoyance on my career. Have you as yet seen anything in your psychic sessions?” Mansfield was pleased he had managed to guide the topic of conversation so soon.
“Well, Richard, my visions of recent have been many and varied in several matters. But in your life, I see many things. Some of which you may not wish to know about.”
“All right, if there’s good news and bad news I guess I’d like to start on a high. Besides, paying money for such a service where ones life is foretold, it can’t be all roses and parties.” Again his remark was glib bordering on flippant.
“Very well. Firstly, your next role is of a regal nature, yes?”
“Yes it is. Shakespeare’s Richard III.”
“It will play for a successful run in London, but more importantly for you it will be well received in a Lincolnshire port.”
“Goddamn Lincolnshire! I’ve never been there and don’t intend to go. You sure on that?”
“Well, there could be a double meaning; there is a Boston there and of course your own country.”
“Well, that’s more like it. What’s the bad news?” There was a pause in the conversation. Lees looked around the room before bowing his head and speaking without making eye contact.
“I can see nothing past your 50th year, Richard. Please see a physician regularly at the turn of the century.” He lifted his head and made eye contact with Mansfield who was nodding his head in grave thoughtful acknowledgment.
“I see. Got anything else?”
“Not of note, my friend.”
Their afternoon tea arrived and was placed on their table by an attractive young waitress. Mansfield looked her up and down and made eye contact and smiled. He was renowned as a discreet womaniser. She returned the smile shyly and then bowed her head and left, back towards the direction that led to the kitchens.
“Anything to brighten my humour or titillate then, Robert? What of the Whitechapel murders then?” This was a topic on which Robert Lees felt great passion, though resentment of his treatment by the police. He was more than willing to comment on what had come to him recently but what he had vowed never to take to Abberline or anyone else.
Lees composed himself before speaking. He lifted the tea pot and poured them each a cup. He sat back and took a deep breath.
“Where should I start? That common fool detective Abberline had the audacity to call me a fool and a lunatic for trying to provide them with information regarding the killer. He failed to understand that my visions are frequently symbolic and not always directly precogni
tive. They sent me away but I was proved right by what I told them. But, I have the ‘last laugh’ for want of a better metaphor. I have foreseen that the men who have committed these crimes will never be caught by the law and the detectives will be prevented to do so by powerful men in society; so their efforts will be fruitless.” Mansfield looked on in stunned silence following the outburst. He considered Lees’ words which provoked questions in his mind. ‘These men’ he spoke of, who were they? Was there more than one killer?
“Robert, of what do you speak?”
“Ah, I knew it would get someone’s attention. One man is responsible for the true murders on the whole. Others became involved either by design or accident. But one who has fled the land is responsible. Trust me.”
“Who the hell is this man?” asked a stunned and transfixed Mansfield.
Again Lees fell silent, seemingly reluctant to speak further. He sipped his jasmine tea and lifted a sandwich and took a bite.
“One of your countrymen is culpable for these acts. He commissioned them himself and committed three. Of the other three one other man of greater evil is responsible or associated with them. He killed through lust and greed.” Mansfield was feeling cynical about such in depth information, especially concerning a fellow American.
“Oh, really,” he tried not to let his cynicism sound in his voice. “Pray tell me what this American’s motivation was?”
“Hatred fuelled by curtailed passions,” replied Lees with conviction. “You seem no better than Abberline, Mr Mansfield?” said Lees making eye contact with him.
“Look, Mister, you tell me Jack shit in depth information about my future but you know all about Jack the Ripper. You must have gipsy blood in you and read a goddamn crystal ball knowing all that stuff. No wonder the cops don’t take you seriously. Give me a bill and we’ll be done.” Lees stood up outraged and was about to speak but was interrupted by Mansfield finishing his diatribe.
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