Whitechapel

by Bryan Lightbody

  “So, Assistant Commissioner, why is that, sir? Hmm? One of my men has been blinded following a burglary here and seizure of valuable evidence against an obviously guilty man. A man who had it not been for the destruction of written evidence in a Limehouse Canal and the attempted murder of another of my officer’s would be convicted by any court in the land. So tell us all, what the hell is so important that you come down here in person and shout the odds.”

  Anderson was now red faced with rage with the impertinence of a mere detective inspector standing up to him. It took him several seconds embarrassingly to compose himself to launch a retaliatory tirade.

  “You common little man! How dare you challenge the integrity of the upper echelons of the police service. With our superior knowledge of the workings of the force we know where the truth lies and it lies obviously with the man Klosowski or Chapman as we all know he is also known. His guilt is most evident, he attempts to kill a constable and kills two innocent people to escape so don’t tell me an innocent American doctor is guilty.”

  “Oh really?” replied Abberline folding his arms and now prepared for a head to head confrontation, “so tell me why his handwriting matched that of some of the Jack the Ripper correspondence.”

  “Abberline, that is science of pure charlatans. Comparing writing, such nonsense, many of us write in the same way.”

  “And what about the arts bag and specimen jars. Somewhat damning evidence, considering the parts missing from some of the victims.”

  “Abberline, he is doctor. Why shouldn’t he have anatomical specimens?”

  “Or is it because he is perhaps a freemason, and you are obliged to protect your own in your so called charitable and benevolent order?”

  With this barbed and difficult to refute comment Anderson flew into an even greater rage and now shouted at the top of voice.

  “Abberline GET OUT! How bloody dare you make such an unfounded accusation. I’ll deal with you outside in a moment.” Abberline for some seconds stood firm. There was silence across the office with all the other officers stunned by the confrontation. Then calmly and slowly Abberline walked out of the office keeping eye contact with the enraged Assistant Commissioner all the way past him. He stood out in corridor some feet away from the office door.

  “Now the rest of you hear this. Find the real murderer and don’t dare consider there to be any basis in the slanderous comments of your Inspector. Anyone I hear of repeating such comments or being involved in any case or pursuance of a case against Dr Tumblety will have me to answer to. That will not be a pleasant experience. Do I make myself clear?” The room remained silent and with no verbal response from any of them as Anderson wheeled and left the room shutting the door behind him. Everyone remained quiet looking around the room at each other in a somewhat dazed condition. They all listened out for a further outburst from the corridor but heard nothing.

  Anderson confronted Abberline in the corridor and spoke quietly and menacingly to him face to face with only a few inches between them having squared right up to the defiant inspector.

  “Don’t expect much more of a career, Abberline. I can’t take you off this case because the press like you and the public like you and there is already too much dissent amongst them for me to cause anymore by removing the so called trusted, sympathetic local man. Cross me again publicly like that or pursue Tumblety and you will have nothing, and I mean nothing.” They stared hard at each other for several seconds neither seemingly prepared to give up. Taffy Evans appeared along the corridor unnoticed by Abberline and Anderson. He felt unsure as to whether to try to pass and coughed to gain their attention. This action made Anderson feel uncomfortable; it forced him to give up the confrontation and leave. Abberline for once actually felt disturbed with Anderson’s parting words thinking not only of his police career with the threat but perhaps it’s greater meaning to his personal life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  That same day following a directive from Abberline, Inspector Walter Andrews arrived in New York having travelled directly from France with the young Detective Constable Arthur Bentham. They were met beyond the immigration control by Detective Hickey sent on the directions of department head Thomas Byrne. The New York Police Department still had the man they thought was Tumblety under observation following the request from Abberline, a request that as yet had not been over-ridden. Both English officers were familiar with Tumblety having followed him in France and seen him during the investigations when he was still in London in custody on the night of Mary Kelly’s murder. They were both more than happy to take over much of the surveillance on the Ripper suspect freeing the NYPD officers to return to their duties.

  Hickey shook hands with Andrews and Bentham as they met.

  “It’s an honour to meet you, gentlemen, real Scotland Yard detectives. I look forward to assisting in your enquiry in any way I can.”

  “That’s very flattering of you, Detective Hickey. We’re very pleased to meet you too,” replied Andrews returning the vigorous handshake.

  “Call me Hicks. I’m your official liaison so anything you want or need then please ask.”

  “We will thank you, Hicks. First thing we’d like to do is to take a ride past the lodgings I understand you have traced him to,” requested an enthusiastic Andrews, keen to start to watch their quarry as soon as possible.

  “Sure. It’s East Tenth Street. A pleasant enough carriage ride, so you’ll get to see a fair bit of the city. My colleague Detective Crowle is running the current surveillance. Tumbelty or Townsend hasn’t been out since he got here apparently.”

  The relationship between Andrews and Bentham with the NYPD was to become positive and very cordial despite the disastrous results that would soon emerge. They walked out of the dockside buildings into the winter sunlight to a plain enclosed carriage that belonged to the NYPD and was used for detective duties. They climbed aboard having passed their minimal luggage up to the driver who stacked it on the roof of the carriage and tied it down. They made themselves comfortable out of the sharp sea breeze within the carriage as the driver secured his load and then within half a minute or so they heard the crack of a riding crop and the carriage lurched off across the bumpy New York dockside cobbles.

  The officers observing 79 East Tenth Street had not seen ‘Mr Townsend’ since his arrival in the city and his lodgings for very good reason. They were very comfortably furnished and the hospitality offered by Mrs McNamara was second to none. He had the use of four rooms, excluding a kitchen which was no disadvantage as the landlady was more that willing to cook, albeit for a fee. With his new found wealth, being cooked for and having a supply of quality alcohol on hand for a fee was the life of luxury for Bill Weston. His rooms consisted of a large lounge furnished with a leather sofa and armchair, a mahogany writing bureau, a glass topped coffee table, a large mirror with an ornately carved wooden frame above a large tiled Victorian fire place. The walls sported a picture rail with beige plain painted plaster above it and ornately patterned red and beige wallpaper below it. He had a large bathroom well appointed with a free standing Victorian iron bath, a large wash basin on a pedal stool with an oversize mirror above it, a toilet and a wooden cabinet that held personal toiletries. He also had two bedrooms. One with a large, soft double bed covered with a traditional Ida down above sheets and blankets, a wooden dressing table, a wooden chest of drawers and a wardrobe. The other bedroom had two double beds with furniture not dissimilar to the first, a room where as he got to grips with his new lifestyle he could accommodate guests, although he’d also use his own room for that purpose with female callers.

  Having never enjoyed such luxurious surroundings with the service provided by the landlady, Weston had decided to stay in and eat, drink and bathe. All things that he had been unable to do freely and wantonly. He would start his day in the large and comfortable deep iron bath, the room filled with steam from the hot water he lazily wallowed in. A generous breakfast of pancakes and syrup with sausages w
ould follow and leave him replete until around 1.p.m when he would enjoy a cooked lunch with a good bottle or two of beer. A read and sleep during the afternoon lead up to a sumptuous evening meal with more alcohol, wine and port, all this more than happily supplied by Mrs McNamara at a price. She found the tastes from her lodger the same as his usual lifestyle, but due to her short-sightedness it was only his voice that seemed to have a different sound to it.

  The English detectives took a slow drive past with Hickey looking the property up and down; it was very different to London premises. The front door was reached by a steep set of steps going up known locally as a ‘stoop’ which was not a regular feature in London with its considerable height. It was a pleasant looking three storey premises that was obviously well maintained and certainly didn’t look to be the kind of place where their quarry would have plied his work. The carriage rattled and bumped over the cobbled street as it passed number 79 and the English detectives were cautious not to be seen to crane their necks looking back as they passed it arousing suspicion from the occupant or neighbours. They pulled up around the corner out of sight at the first junction they met where the driver brought the carriage to a halt by the right kerb.

  Inspector Andrews alighted from the carriage and walked back to the junction and peered carefully around the building line having removed his very distinctive English wide brimmed trilby hat. There were residential properties on both sides of the street. The street itself seemed to be fairly sparsely populated by either pedestrians or horse drawn traffic. Men in the street would therefore ‘stick out’ so any following of Tumblety, masquerading as he believed as Frank Townsend, would have to be done by officers exiting the premises from where the surveillance was being conducted from cautiously. He sighed and walked back to Hickey and Bentham who were informally talking by the carriage. He put his hat back on as he approached and they turned to face him.

  “Hicks, where are your men that are keeping watch?” asked Andrews.

  “We’ve got two guys opposite in number 80, and one guy in the house in the next street that backs on to it,” replied Hickey.

  “And how co-operative are the local residents with that, can they be trusted to not try and tell the occupants of number 79?”

  “Well, yeah. We told them all that we were watching a suspect in the Jack the Ripper murders in London and to keep their Goddamn mouths shut, or get implicated in aiding and abetting a felon.” Andrews was a little concerned by Hicks apparently gung ho response; he didn’t like the threat to people and he didn’t like people to know that someone had been pursued here. If it hit the press then Tumblety would probably try to run again or at the very least be cautious in his movements. Andrews rubbed his chin and for several seconds stared into space saying nothing. As he gathered his thoughts to form a plan of action he looked up and spoke.

  “All right. Say nothing to anyone else about the true nature of the investigation. Not even in your department. The less people know the better to keep it potentially out of the press. Don’t threaten anyone it only serves to alienate. We’ll try to spin a new cover story about the surveillance in the meantime and I’ll need to keep on a couple of your blokes until more of mine arrive…” Hicks interrupted.

  “What’s ‘a bloke’?” he asked somewhat bemused by the term.

  “A man. I have five more men imminently arriving then I won’t need any of your fellows for the surveillance.”

  “But you won’t have any jurisdiction to arrest, Mr Andrews.”

  Hickey had a good point. They would have no official power of police arrest in New York, unless they got sworn in, but could detain someone as a private citizen. He thought long and hard on this matter and was quiet for sometime as he considered options. He had wanted to keep the NYPD’s involvement to a minimum, which now seemed impractical in the best interests of the investigation.

  “Good point. I want you, if you will, to stay working with us on the investigations as a liaison, which you have told us you already are, but more importantly for your police powers.” There was a pause and looking at Detective Hickey Andrews noticed that he looked a little unfulfilled. He took stock of what he had just said and quickly addressed it.

  “And of course and most importantly, for your law enforcement experience, especially your local knowledge of New York City.”

  “Mr Andrews, when do you want to start taking over the majority of the surveillance?”

  “Well. Tomorrow would be good if we go off to our accommodation now to get rid of a luggage and get a fresh start then.”

  “Great. Let’s go, the hotel is comfortable and it serves good beer. The welcome drink is courtesy of Chief Inspector Byrne.”

  “Splendid,” replied Andrews who put his hand in a comradely way on Hickey’s shoulder allowing him to board the carriage first. They all boarded and the driver snapped his crop and they lurched off along the cobbles.

  ***

  Abberline re-entered the room to find everyone looking at him in stunned silence. He looked around at his loyal team and it took him some minutes before he could compose himself to speak. He was genuinely unsettled by Anderson’s visit and looked at the faces of these trustworthy, decent men and felt humbled in their dedicated presence. Before he was about to speak Robert Ford broke the silence.

  “Guv’nor, this all stinks. That man who was here was the same man that led the attack on me and the papers I was getting copied. I recognise that voice anywhere, he’s the one that fucking killed his own and was going to do me. I’m sure I speak for all of us,” he said looking around the room as he spoke, “but what the hell is going on?”

  Silence again descended over the room as Abberline coughed to clear his throat before speaking. He looked down at his feet, then up in the air, scratched his forehead and then spoke.

  “Gentlemen, we are in the hands of a conspiracy that runs deep into the heart of the British establishment. It has roots within the judiciary, government, an unsuspecting Royal family and of course the police service. It is more powerful than any of us and we are all fucked if we attempt to take the Tumblety issue any further; and it makes me sick to the stomach.” There was silence across the room again which was broken by Ford.

  “Who are these people? What is going on, Guv?” There was a long pause before Abberline then spoke expressing his ill feelings.

  “Freemasons were responsible for corruption in the detective department before and it’s happening all over again and it makes me sick. For those of you that don’t know, back in 1877 it was discovered that virtually every officer in the Yard’s C.I.D was in the pay of vicious swindlers. It all started in 1872 when John Meiklejohn, an inspector and a mason, met William Kurr another mason and head of a bogus betting agency. This crook needed someone in the force to tip him off as to when the police were gaining enough to nick them for their business. Meiklejohn accepted £100 bribe to keep the old bill off their backs. Trouble was all the blokes in the C.I.D were masons, except the Boss, Superintendent Williamson; all the senior detectives, Clarke, Palmer and Druscovitch all fucking masons. None of them were fussed therefore about Meiklejohn and his carry-ons. He was known in coded messages from his criminal mason friends as ‘countryman,’ and I say friends in plural as it included not only Kurr but a dangerous madman called Harry Benson. Benson was known as a lunatic from an incident where whilst in Newgate he set light to himself on his bed leaving himself scarred and crippled. Meiklejohn introduced all the junior detectives into the payroll but they were all found out when Benson and Kurr pulled off one job too big when they managed to swindle £10,000 out of a French noble woman. Williamson put Druscovitch in charge of the investigation, not knowing of the corruption involved; but when he made no headway Williamson took action. Eventually all the corrupt officers, all bloody masons, were brought to justice leaving the C.I.D in ruins. It was after that I moved into the department and I swore that they would never get that sort of hold again.” He was silent for a few seconds before finishing. “But look w
hat’s happened. The bastards have got control again and they are so powerful there is nothing we can do.”

  Robert Ford thought long and hard on Abberline’s words and knew from that day the masons would never get the better of him, his future investigations and in his pursuit of justice for Mary. “Guv, Anderson was prepared to kill me, one of his officers. I mean, to whom does he give the greatest loyalty? Law and order, or these freemasons?”

  “Simple answer to that, lad. To the Brotherhood and never forget it. You’ll never be able to, in their eyes, out smart them. You might win a battle, as they say, but never the war.” Abberline paused and then spoke again. “George, come with me down the post office we’ve got to contact Wally Andrews and call him off. Gentlemen, the pursuit of Tumblety ends here. Let’s try and salvage something and find this Chapman or Klosowski bloke.”

  Abberline left the office followed very quickly by George Godley as everyone else looked around the room at each other and silently got on with their tasks; some leaving the office, others back to the dull process of sifting the various statements and their content.

  ***

  Wednesday 5th December 8.a.m, Andrews and Bentham arrived at number 80 East Tenth Street via the rear to take over the day shift from the NYPD men. They were quickly left there by themselves, save for a lone local cop watching the rear of the premises, and settled in to watching from the behind the net curtains of the bay window. The occupant already knew who they were looking at being familiar with Mrs McNamara’s regular lodger and his less than wholesome reputation. Andrews’s hopes of the investigation being discreet were more than compromised and hoped the path of it would not lead to more bad news for Abberline. At this stage he was unaware of the events of the week in London and the fact that he shouldn’t even be pursuing Tumblety. He was blamelessly oblivious to the fact that Abberline had, at that point, not told The Yard’s hierarchy that men were on a mission in America.