Whitechapel (16 page)

“Fred, how the hell are you, you old sot!” This was a sarcastic greeting from Chandler who also wrestled with a drink problem. They shook hands warmly and vigorously.

“Off the sauce and on the case, Joe. What you got for us?”

“The old boy there,” Chandler began pointing to John Davis, “lives on the third floor at the front
of the house with his wife and three sons. He was a bit restless and went for a wander in the early hours and found what was left of her.” Abberline surveyed the interior of the property as Chandler spoke noting windows. He was grateful for his old friend’s efforts so far.

“Right, thanks Joe, we’ll go and talk to him. Can you do us a favour, can you give your blokes a brief at your next shift parade about scene preservation, as everyone so far has been a bloody mess. People and coppers walking all around and I’m getting it in the neck from the doctors. We need all the help we can with evidence to catch this bastard.” Abberline addressed this as diplomatically as he could.

Chandler appreciated the delivery and the sentiments of what Abberline said. “Fred, no problem, I’ll pass it around at The Street and do it first thing tomorrow to my lot. I’ll get back into the yard and see what’s going on out there and let you sort out Davis. Good to see you again, mate.”

“Yeah, you too, see you at The Street.” Chandler made his way out as Abberline and Godley approached John Davis.

Davis was a stooped and ageing fifty-three year old carman at Leadenhall Market. He appeared to be a little pensive at being left to these two imposing looking detectives. Abberline wanted to put him at ease. “John, look it’s a bit noisy in here can we go upstairs to your place?”

The nervous and prematurely elderly man stammered as he spoke. “Certainly, Mr Abbbbb..erline, you don’t mind my wii……fe being there do you?”

“Not at all, you lead the way.”

Davis led them up a narrow and rickety wooden stair case that due to its cheap construction creaked on every board. Godley and Abberline noted that the building was surprisingly free of damp or smells for an East End property and that on the whole staircase which ran at the rear of the building there was only one window. Both detectives had noted that all the rooms at the rear did have windows that overlooked the yard. They entered a clean but cramped room which held a double bed, a table and three chairs, a sink and a dilapidated wardrobe. It had one window which overlooked Hanbury Street itself. Mrs Davis sat at the table and immediately got up as the three men entered. Abberline spoke to try to put her at ease immediately and noted she was drinking from a steaming mug, it smelt like fresh tea and he wanted her to enjoy it despite the circumstances.

“Please, don’t stand on ceremony for me and George, Mrs Davis, stay at your seat if you wish and enjoy the rest of your tea,” said Abberline as amiably as he could. She sat back down and Abberline ushered to John Davis to join his wife. He pulled out a chair and offered the third to Abberline who duly took it with Godley settling himself on the edge of the bed.

Abberline began the questioning as Godley pulled his pocket book out from his suit jacket along with a pencil. “So, John, how long have you been here?”

“About tttt..two weeks.”

“Just you and Mrs Davis?”

“Nnnnno, me, Jean and thhhhhhh…three boys, Mr Abberline.”

“How do you know me then, John?”

“You ssss..s.orted me out years ago after I got beat up yyyyy……years ago outside The Tttttt….ten Bells.”

“Ah, I see,” Abberline could not recall him having been to many fights at The Ten Bells. “So what can you tell me?”

“W
wwww……well
, I don’t ssss…..sleep good sometimes and I’d been a bit dddd…disturbed through the night so I got up for some air about qqqq…quarter to six. Never heard anything all nnnnn….night but came down into the yyyyy….yard and well, it was hhhhhh…..horrible, Mr Abberline. Blood all up the fffff…fence and her all rrrrrr….ripped up.”

“So you never saw anything or heard anything. Any neighbours say anything to you this morning?”

“No, nnnnn….nothing, I think most of them are tttttt….tarts or pimps so they was out I think.”

Turning to Godley, Abberline remarked “Well that explains a lot I think we’ll find, George.”

“Your wife or boys see or hear anything?”

“Nah, all asleep.”

“Where are the boys now?”

“Out, mmmmm…making a crust, sir, one sells papers, the other two work up chchch…..chimneys.”

Abberline took a moment to consider his train of thought. Godley chipped in during the pause. “John, has that body been moved at all or disturbed between the time you found it to the time the police arrived?”

“Well, I
wwwwww…..went
up to Commercial Ststst….street nick and at the same time JJJJJJ….Jimmy Green and Jim Kent went looking for a copper. Your other blokes are talking to them, they llllll….live next door at the front of their places too. But from what I remember I don’t reckon it was touched. Who’d want to touch that, I mean.”

Abberline asked a final question. “John, who was charging money to see poor old Annie before the police arrived.”

Davis looked pensive and exchanged glances with his wife before answering, “No, I ccccc…can’t get involved in no gggggg….grassing Mr Abberline. You’ll have to ask sssss….someone else.”

“Did, you know Annie, John?” asked Godley.

“No, nnnn…never seen her before, ever.”

The two detectives got up to leave. “Thanks for your time, Mr and Mrs Davis, if there is anything else don’t hesitate to contact us will you,” said Abberline in closing.

Mrs Davis chipped in. “Catch him soon, Mr Abberline; all of us are really scared, day and night.”

“We’re doing all we can,” replied Abberline and then the two of them left to return to the gruesome scene outside.

“Strange sentiment from her, Fred, do you think she works on the street herself?” said Godley as they reached the yard still filled with police and locals most of whom were milling about for no reason. The body they noted had now gone, taken to the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary Mortuary.

“Maybe, George, but maybe she’s just worried for all women, he might not always choose unfortunates.”

The doctor had seen what he needed to see, the photographer had been prior to Annie’s move and the junior detectives had sketched the scene and had the rest of the immediate investigation in hand. It was time for Abberline and Godley to return to their office at The Street and confront the difficult Doctor Phillips. They passed out of the yard of 29 Hanbury Street seeing the photographer packing up with Robert Ford and Del nearby stopping any folk just wandering in.

“Frank,” said Abberline addressing the photographer, “did you get a picture of the arterial spray on the fence?”

“You what, Guv?”

“The blood on the fence, son!”

“No, Guv’nor, sorry run out of plates.”

“Well can’t you get some more?”

“I’ll try, but it ain’t quick, I’ve got to go to The Yard for them.”

“All right, you do that, in the meantime, you,” said Abberline pointing to Robert Ford “do a sketch of them in your pocket book, and take your time I want it accurate. Robert and Del had ended up being kept at the scene for crowd control. Robert looked at Del as if for inspiration but really because he’d sooner his friend shouldered the responsibility this time after the earlier error.

“Don’t look at him!” yelled Godley “Get on with it, lad!” Robert stepped forward drawing his notebook and pencil whilst Del surreptitiously winked at him and stayed at the yard entrance. He stood back and began cautiously and as accurately as he could to draw.

The photographer took himself off to Scotland Yard for more photographic plates and returned some three hours later to find the scene abandoned by police, the junior detectives thinking all was done. The blood had been washed away innocently by Mrs Davis. He knew there would be hell to play so he told Abberline later that the plates were over exposed and produced no image.

CHAPTER NINE
 

A week after the fight with the poultry stall holder and the police, Michael Ostrog was still seeking attention for his deep wound. Murphy and Parish had turned up nothing in relation to his wound having been attended anywhere as a result and it had seemed that they were unlikely too. Late on the night of Sunday 8th September he found himself in ‘The Blind Beggar’ public house in Whitechapel Road; the bleeding had stopped following him rudimentarily wrapping his wound in an off cut of a cotton sheet he found in the rubbish. There he met John Pizer at the bar, a thirty-eight year old second generation Polish Jewish immigrant working as a boot finisher. He fancied himself as a medical man having worked briefly as a slaughter man, then a butcher and attending many public post mortems. He felt if he could stitch a few wounds on the side it might make him some extra cash. He was known within the neighbourhood in which he worked as ‘Leather Apron’ due the distinctive apron that he was always seen in. Following discreet enquiries Ostrog had been directed to the pub to seek his help. Pizer noticed the heavy makeshift bandaging Ostrog sported and the pain he appeared to be in and saw the obvious opportunity as he was approached by Ostrog.

“That looks a bit sore that, mate,” he said to Ostrog having made eye contact with him at the bar.

“Yes, and what’s it to you, friend?” came the reply in a heavy European accent that Pizer could not place.

“Well I do a bit of back street surgery and thought you might need some help.”

“How much?” Ostrog growled in a low voice looking around him.

“What d’ya say, couldn’t catch it, mate?”

“How much, all things have a price attached?”

“Well, I’ve got to look at the wound first, might need a bit of cleaning, maybe a stitch, can’t give you a price until a consultation.”

“Where?” said Ostrog with growing suspicion.

“Mulberry Street, 22, not far. It’s for your health mate, just trying to help.”

“All right, let’s go. You fool with me and I kill you.”

“Fucking hell, mate, bit strong. In fact, stuff it find someone else.”

Pizer turned to leave to then feel the sharp pointed blade of what he imagined to be an exceptionally large knife in his back. He froze, the stranger it seemed had the next move.

“You take me and fix me and I pay you, you walk away now and I kill you outside for insulting me. I kill before in Russian army.” Pizer could feel the formation of sweat induced by fear on his brow, what choice did he now have in this dangerous situation of his own making.

“Follow, me I’ll sort you out all right, I won’t rip you off neither,” he turned to look at Ostrog, ironically continuing. “I am some what at the mercy of the point you have made, sir.” They left the pub and made for Mulberry Street.

22 Mulberry Street was a run down old cobblers shop. As a premises it had been in Pizer’s family for many years and he could be a little itinerant in his presence there. The main reason he practised illegal medicine as an aside was that it kept money coming in during his absences. Frequent times being closed meant that he was an unreliable business to use affecting his meagre profit margins. Brushes with the law and alcohol were what normally created the unforeseen absences that kept him away. They had walked uncomfortably together from the pub with not a word of conversation between them. Pizer pulled out a door key for number 22 from his leather apron which he almost constantly wore holding normally the tools of his legal trade and money. As they entered together Pizer could detect the faint smell of infection from Ostrog’s wound which indicated to him it was several days old. They made their way through the cobblers section of the shop to the rear where Pizer had a makeshift medical type couch constructed from old wooden crates, cotton wadding and leather.

Ostrog sat himself onto this slowly and indeed painfully grasping his injured arm as he did so to prevent himself knocking it. To Pizer it seemed that he had little strength or use in the arm. Without a word between them Pizer stepped up to the couch and began to slowly to unwrap the make do bandage that Ostrog was wearing. Ostrog made no attempt to resist and just grunted in pain when the bandage it self tore away from the gaping wound in his shoulder and upper arm muscles. The stench of infection that Pizer had suspected now truly hit him as the wound was a festering mess. Dead skin surrounded the deep gash which was various discolouring shades of yellow giving way to a healthier redness the deeper the wound became indicating even to Pizer that the wound was, at least, not beyond repair. Unwrapping the temporary dressing had discoloured Pizer’s own clothing with blood and some rotting human tissue.

“Mate, there’s two ways I can deal with this,” said the would be doctor to his now almost prostrate and grimacing patient, “We can have a go at cutting the dead and infected flesh away, wash it out with spirit and then put in a couple of stitches and job done in a couple of hours. Lot of pain though as I don’t do anything with any anaesthetic.”

“Yes, I understand, I am Russian military surgeon. Other method is what?”

“Well, see them pots over there marked fish bait,” said Pizer pointing to three glass jars with muslin lids tied around their necks, “they’re full of maggots. We isolate your wound, add the maggots what then eat all the rotten flesh. Bit of a tickle, takes eight hours or so, so you’d have to rest the night here to get it finished like.”

Ostrog knew that a man practising illegal medicine could be dangerous. He might wonder why he was treating such a wound and contact the police to deflect attention from himself. With this in mind and the fact that this ‘surgeon’ had asked him no questions he would take the quick but painful option. “I will take your first suggestion, have no time to wait around all night, just give me something to bite on to vent the pain.”

“No problem, that comes as a standard part of the practice. We’ll get started then and when we’re finished that’ll be six shillings,” said Pizer.

“Don’t worry, Leather Apron, I will give you something for your trouble,” replied Ostrog, trying to disguise menace in his voice. Certainly Pizer was uncomfortable in this man’s presence, but any business was business.