Whitechapel (41 page)

“Gentleman, I’m sorry I don’t appreciate your pressure. When I see more I shall let you know at the earliest opportunity.” Lees finished his drink and hurried outside and hailed a cab to take him home as the detectives finished their small ales and resumed a patrol of the area.

John Netley was again helping his friend out driving his hansom as he picked up the fare in Commercial Street outside The Britannia recognising instantly who it was and engaging him in conversation.

“Nice to see you, Mr Lees. Been doing anything interesting then?” Lees despite his gift of clairvoyance was often naïve to the corruption of the greater world and spoke freely to Netley.

“Just trying to help the police with these awful murders, but they seem cynical to what I have to tell them.”

“Oh, really?” Replied an interested Netley for his own ends and managed to glean from Lees his entire involvement with the case on the journey to Peckham. He gratefully received the fare and tip from Lees on arrival and was subconsciously even more grateful for Lees’ loose tongue; the information from it was worth a few quid to his contact at The Star, Will Bates.

***

Friday 2
nd
November 8.p.m; it was the third night in a row that Tumblety had trawled the pubs in Commercial Street in a desperate hunt for the man named Chapman. He maintained his caution by going out in smart civilian clothes so as not to draw the attention to himself that the American uniforms usually courted. He had enquired of all the bar keepers but despite all of them knowing of this man by description none of them were sure of his name, though some thought he sounded more like a man with an Eastern European name. No one had seen him in the area for several days. Neither had he seen Mary Kelly on his visits daily to the area and feared speaking to anyone else over the matter in case he drew some suspicion upon himself. He still felt euphorically absolved after his meeting with her and had no urge to pursue his previously wanton and blood thirsty path. He settled down in The Britannia for the next couple of hours enjoying a quart of port to himself and hoping beyond hope that either of them would walk in door. His wishes for the night would go unanswered as he had arranged for a carriage driven by the obliging John Netley to collect him at 10.p.m which he heard draw up outside promptly. Reluctantly he walked out and took the journey home which was more eventful and stressful than he had imagined.

“How are you then, doctor?” politely asked John Netley.

“Fine thank you, Netley, get me to Graham Road as soon as you can.”

“You heard the latest then on this Ripper case?” asked Netley knowingly, although he did not realise that his passenger had not seen the papers over the last few days. He earnt himself a pretty penny from Bates at The Star for his information from Lees. The headlines had been splashed across news stand boards as well as the papers:

‘Royal Psychic Helps Police’

With subtext expanding with a description.

‘Sought: brooding foreign doctor type with a thick moustache’.

Netley explained these latest newspaper headlines to his fare.

“So what do you reckon about all that then?” He asked cockily as they pulled up outside Tumblety’s Hackney lodgings. “Who knows, with that description it could be you, sir. Know what I mean?” he said threateningly. Tumblety was alighting as these last words were spoken. He passed his cane from his good to his weak arm and reached up as if to pay Netley with his good arm, as he did so he took hold of Netley’s sleeve and pulled him off of his carriage perch and onto the pavement on which he landed heavily. He passed his stick back across to his strong hand and stepped with one foot heavily onto Netley’s chest and jabbed the stick into his throat. He began choking as Tumblety spoke in an ominously calm manner to him prostrate on the floor.

“Are you threatening me, coachman? I sincerely hope not because very few people would miss your passing.” Netley struggled to reply.

“I only meant that they might think you were a suspect, I didn’t mean nothing by it, honest.” Tumblety maintained the pressure on him.

“Good, let me tell you, I find anyone looking for me and I will find you before they find me.” Netley was close to passing out and in extreme pain as Tumblety dropped the fare money onto his chest and let go of his choke hold and walked up the steps into his lodgings. Netley had to lie where he was for a half a minute or so to gain his breath, strength and composure before getting to his feet. He looked on ruefully at the building to which Tumblety had just entered and then mounted his carriage rubbing his neck and rode off.

10.15.p.m; Fred Churchyard walked back into Commercial Street to earn his money from Druitt with his falsehood which would keep him off the streets selling himself at least for a short while. Detective Sergeant Bill Thick happened to be in the front office as he entered and made his complaint.

“I want to report a series of sexual assaults on me and on one of my mates.”

“Where’s your mate then?” asked Thick.

“He’s too scared to come in ‘cos the bloke what did it is real nasty but I’ve got a make a stand,” replied Churchyard. With the wave of hysteria for all types of violent crime in the area Thick took him into a separate interview room to record details of his complaint.

“Right, lad, your name and address and then lets hear what’s gone on.”

“Fred Churchyard of 67 Cable Street, Stepney. This American bloke has repeatedly attacked me but only once has he managed to get his way and it was fucking evil. He forced me down, threatened me with a fuck off sword and buggered me senseless. He done it to my mate too months before and he’s tried it on with me twice in the bogs of The Britannia.”

“You’ve taken your time. When did these attacks happen then?” asked Thick somewhat curious about the motivation for these allegations.

“He tried it on with me first on the 27
th
July, then my mate on the 31
st
August, he had ago at me again on the 14
th
of October and then buggered me yesterday. I had to do something or else he’ll kill someone.” Thick was somewhat suspicious of Churchyard’s story but listened on. “My mate,” thinking of an imaginary name, “Bill Wogan, he’s too scared to come forward, thinks the bloke will kill him. This geezer had him at knife point he did.” Thick took a full detailed statement regarding the assaults, all of which involved a high or low level of indecency according to Churchyard and then went on to establish the assailants identity and description.

“He’s about 5’10”, a medium built bloke with dark hair and a big dark moustache, often wears some fancy uniform or otherwise smart clothes. He’s about fifty years of age, but the key thing is that he’s an American. He’s got a funny name too, Tombs, Tongue, Tumbles, Tumblety or something.” In his pressured condition to fabricate the story for money he had struggled to remember the American’s name.

Bill Thick witnessed the signatures Churchyard provided on each statement sheet and then went on to explain the legal procedure.

“Right, once this bloke is nicked we will need you to attend court as a witness and give this evidence. You going to turn up and do that then?”

Churchyard finished signing the sheets and looked up towards Thick but couldn’t look him in the eye and spoke with somewhat false commitment.

“Course I will, Sergeant, I want this man in jail.”

Thick showed Churchyard out of the police station and walked through The Street’s corridors to Abberline’s office. Churchyard walked across the road and straight into the Commercial Street Tavern where Druitt was waiting at the bar for him. The young man walked up to him but could not look at him and stared at the opticals behind the bar as they spoke.

“Well, is it done then?” asked Druitt nervously of the lad who he could see was sweating and clearly disturbed.

“Yeah, got the rest of the money then, mister?” Druitt pulled out his wallet and withdrew some notes to pay the lad the balance for his planned revenge. He felt sick to the pit of his stomach for setting down this course of action and proffered the money to the boy. He snatched it from Druitt’s hand and turned to leave, stopping to make a closing comment.

“Don’t look for me again; don’t talk to me if you do.” With that Churchyard ran from the pub and made his way back to his usual area around The Blind Beggar. Druitt casually finished his drink not wishing to draw attention to himself and left sometime later.

DS Bill Thick in the meantime had made his way round to the incident room to confront Abberline with the statement he had just taken as the description of the individual involved could be of significance to the investigation. He walked in to find Abberline and Godley in the familiar routine of being head in hands reading through statements and reports from officers on foot patrols in the area, both uniform and plain clothed.

“Guv’nor, I’ve got something you might find of interest bearing in mind some of the consistent parts of the descriptions you’ve had.” Abberline looked up from his reading and stretched with a big yawn as he spoke.

“What you got then, it’s getting late. Will it excite me?”

“Well I don’t know about that but it might be something or nothing. You’ve had a couple of consistent things in the descriptions. Big moustache and a foreign accent. I’ve just taken a complaint of buggery from a young fella by an American with a big moustache, and occasionally in uniform.” Godley and Abberline looked at each other and listened intently. “I know it don’t mean some bullying queer is Jack the Ripper but he’s got to be worth finding and pulling in.”

“Got an address from your complainant for this bloke?” said Godley.

“No, but he hangs out in all the pubs in Commercial Street, I thought one of our plain patrols would pick him easily, he would stick out a bit after all.”

“Good work, mate,” said Abberline, “put it in the brief for everyone and as soon as we have a result and he’s in let me know.” Bill Thick gave the statement to Abberline as he left with a parting “Goodnight, fellas.”

CHAPTER TWENTY
 

Tuesday 6
th
November. Everyday since the exchange with Tumblety Mary had kept a bedside vigil from midday to six in the evening hoping Robert would awake. He had stirred and become physically restless several times which she was assured was a good sign, but he had not regained consciousness or opened his eyes. Mary had deposited the money from Tumblety in the wardrobe at Robert’s lodgings knowing that it would be safe there and now at around 6.30.p.m she found herself depressed and wandering Commercial Street. She entered The Ten Bells and approached the bar where she saw Julia Styles another street worker who she hadn’t seen for some while but knew quite well. She was not dissimilar to Mary in height and build and had the same long auburn hair but was not as pretty as the younger girl. Certainly like Mary she could be considered out of place for working the streets of Whitechapel.

“Well, well, the fair Mary Kelly. How are you darling? Ain’t seen you for a while? Where you been?” They kissed and hugged with Julia then ordering the drinks from the amiable barkeeper.

“Two double gins please, Pikey,” she said.

“Thank you, Julia love, I’ve tried to get me self off the streets having found a new man and with these murders taking place.”

“New man, eh? Very nice, must be special if you ain’t working anymore.”

“He is. He’s had an accident though and is in the London Hospital. Once he’s out we’re leaving London.”

“Got some money then, have you? What does he do then?”

“He’s a copper, but he’s giving it up and we’ve managed to save a bit,” Mary was never going to admit where the money to leave had come from.

“Well good for you. Want to know where I’ve been?” said Julia with obvious pride in a recent achievement.

“Yeah, go on then. What you been up to.”

“Met this American,” Mary went cold for a moment. “Famous actor, Richard Mansfield, shags like a fucking buck rabbit and pays well too. He’s had me going to his place all tarted up in me best for last six weeks paying handsomely. Trouble is I’m back here now as he’s leaving with that bloody Ripper and The Star having helped close his play.” They had both downed their drinks and with the ebullient mood that Julia was in Mary could see it was time for another. Seeing her old friend had lifted her own spirits and the first double put her in the mood for more. It had been a long time it seemed since she had enjoyed a merry evening.

“Want another one then, love?” she asked Julia.

“Does a cat climb a tree, darling. Course. Same again, eh?”

‘Pikey’, the barman obligingly served Mary another pair of double gins and the two women settled themselves into a relaxing drinking session.

***

Francis Tumblety alighted from his cab in Whitechapel High Street to have a walk before trawling the pubs to find Mary and warn her away. He was oblivious to the fact that he was a wanted man as he paid the driver and began strolling from the Aldgate end of the High Street towards Commercial Street. Ahead he could see a patrolling constable, Joe Cartwright, walking towards him in the now dimly gas lit streets of seven in the evening. The officer gave him a good look up and down and politely spoke to him which relaxed Tumblety’s initial tension.

“Good evening, sir,” he said to the well dressed moustached gent he was about to pass, obviously not a local man.

“Good evening to you, constable,” replied Tumblety politely in his distinctive American drawl. The officer’s guard immediately came up as he casually walked on past and kept going to create a little distance between the two of them so he could keep Tumblety under observation. He also knew it would give him a chance to meet another policeman to deal with the suspect together. He had listened intently to the briefing that day regarding the man wanted for indecent assault on four counts and knew that the individual he had just spotted would be a strong suspect.

With about sixty yards between them he turned and followed Tumblety in the dim light and as he had anticipated he met another officer emerging from Colchester Street and he beckoned him over. It was Sergeant Eli Caunter, known to his colleagues as ‘Tommy Roundhead’, who crossed the road to meet Cartwright.