Whitechapel (51 page)

He walked back out into the fresh air and looked around the yard. It was bare and minimalist paved with rough cobbles with a washing line stretched across it. The only place here to look through or into was the coal bunker; he pulled up the chute’s shutter at knee level to reveal only a trickle of some lumps of anthracite. ‘Odd?’ he thought ‘they must be waiting for a delivery.’ He was about to walk away, but paused. He returned to it and tried the top merchant’s delivery hatch but it was jammed shut. He studied it and found curiously that it had been nailed to the main bunker so he bent down and took a look in but could see little in its extreme darkness. With the absence of any lighting he would have to lean in and try and feel for anything inside.

He had to lie down prone on his front to be able to get any significant range with the small wooden structure and felt frustration in soiling his clothes. From left to right he felt his way round as far as he could his hand brushing all kinds of rough stony debris he assumed was a mixture of coal and broken rocks having found their way in with deliveries. Then his hand brushed something soft and fury but cold and still; he reluctantly took hold of what he believed was an animal’s leg and dragged it toward him to get it into some light. As it began to be struck by the light from the chute he could see that it was a dead emaciated cat. Although expecting it, it still made him jump when he saw it nervously withdrawing his hand and shaking off a handful of maggots from his arm. Undeterred he put his arm back in and continued his sweep feeling more small lumps of coal and little else until he had almost reached the leading wall of the bunker by the front chute and felt an upright leather bag.

He ran his hand over it trying to find something to which to gain a purchase to pull it out into the open. He caught hold of a carrying handle, gripped it and pulled the bag out into the daylight. His heart was racing with excitement having found an item that had so obviously been hidden, but it still left him with clarity of thought. He knew that he should not open it without more experienced officers present but didn’t want to drag it too far from where he found it. He called out for his superiors to join him.

“Mr Abberline! Sergeant Godley! Come outside there’s something here you must see, gentlemen.” Inside they had been examining Abberline’s finds together and looked up at each other with a start on hearing Ford’s shout. They left the lodgings and walked briskly to the rear of the premises entering the courtyard to see a blackened looking young officer with a leather arts bag in front of him.

“I haven’t looked inside it yet, Mr Abberline, thought that you two ought to be present before it was opened, you know evidence and all that,” said Ford as he was trying vainly to brush his clothes down with blackened palms – making the situation worse much to the amusement of the senior detectives.

“I wouldn’t bother if I was you, son. Wait until you’ve got white not black hands!” said Godley with a chuckle. Abberline bent down to the bag.

“Right,” he said examining the clasp which he found was unlocked “Lets see what’s inside, what that American fucker forgot to take.” Abberline pulled the top of the bag apart having released the clasp and looked onto the tops of lots of jars and varying arts materials. The bag had a solid box section to it inside which kept everything tidy and in order, but essentially stopped the jars falling over and leaking. He slowly pulled out one of the jars and stood up holding it up to the light and looked into it with disbelief.

Ford stood mouth open, aghast; Godley muttered something like ‘oh my Lord’ while Abberline looked into the contents with fervent hate for its owner. Even without anatomical expertise he knew the jar contained parts plundered from the Ripper’s victims and looked down into the bag dreading what else was in the other jars. He put the first jar down and pulled out another, then another and then another and there were still more left in the bag; he couldn’t bear to pull any of the others out and knelt in silence staring into the bag, Godley and Ford silent and still too shocked to speak.

“What the hell is that all about, Fred? What the hell drives someone to possess such a gruesome collection?” asked Godley reeling.

“Don’t know, George, but this fucker is going to hang, no doubt. Rob, go off to get Llewellyn and Phillips, I want them at The Street to tell me what the fuck all this stuff is.” Abberline replaced all the jars in the bag as he spoke and closed it up.

“Right, Guv.” Ford made his way back through the house to run the errand while Abberline picked up the bag and he and Godley walked slowly and with further troubled minds from the lodgings in Hackney Road.

While the search had been taking place Sir Robert Anderson had ordered the attendance of Superintendent Arnold at his office that morning for a briefing, as far as Arnold was concerned, regarding information from the Home Secretary, Henry Matthews on the direction of the Ripper case. Arnold could never have been prepared for the direction he was about to be given.

“Sit down Mr Arnold please,” said Anderson as he himself sat at his desk. “Now listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you.”

“Yes, sir, as always. What has the Home Secretary instructed?”

“You are to dismiss the investigation against Dr Tumblety. There is apparent new evidence that sheds innocence upon him in relation to the Ripper murders.” Arnold sat silent for sometime before answering.

“But Inspector Abberline has evidence against him that makes him one of the strongest suspects in the investigation. The handwriting evidence especially crossed referenced with the statement he made. He is quite certain Tumblety is the man, or one of them.”

“Well I can tell you he is not. This information disputes the version of events that Abberline subscribes to and that is that. Matter closed.” Anderson sat back in his chair pompously.

“Sir, there will be hell to play with Abberline. He is very tenacious.”

“I don’t care! You tell him from me, that man is innocent, and if he doesn’t like it tell him to come and see me. I want you to pass all evidence regarding Dr Tumblety to me for safekeeping.”

“That won’t be easy; I’ll need reason to do so.” Anderson thrust a piece of paper at Arnold. It was a handwritten letter; signed Victoria R on official Buckingham Palace letter paper the rest of the content seemed immaterial. The actions had Royal approval.

“I think that should cover it Superintendent, show it to Abberline or any other obstructive minions. If they don’t like it they’d better think of other careers.”

Arnold was stunned. He been put in an impossible position and had to think of himself, his reputation and his imminent pension.

There really was little else to be said in the face of the weight of establishment pressure now being placed. He held on to the letter and stood up to leave with a final address to Anderson.

“For the record, I don’t like it and I shall mark my diary as such and complete a statement which I shall have verified and sealed for any later repercussions. I accept I am a servant of the crown and must act accordingly. Good day to you.” Arnold left the office. Anderson looked on as the door to his office opened and closed. The matter had been easier than he had expected.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
 

Sunday 25
th
November; Tumblety boarded the French steamer La Bretagne at Le Havre following a journey along the coast from his landing in Boulogne having fled England. Using his favoured pseudonym of Frank Townsend, a name that he would travel under until he was well away from the coast back in America; he embarked on a seven day Trans Atlantic crossing. Wearing a plain dark blue gent’s suit with a wing collar shirt and tie, he had decided to ditch his favoured uniform look to avoid attention and if the London police had wired details to the French Surete they could be looking for a uniformed man. He had waxed his distinctive handle bar moustache to change its appearance and cut his hair considerably shorter again to appear as different to his London persona as possible. He sported a bowler or ‘derby’ hat and carried with him an umbrella and two canes tied together, one his sword cane and the other a single shot firearm; now he was returning to the States he would again have the right to bear arms.

His luggage had been placed in his outside cabin and he entered the comfortable accommodation and walked to the opposite seaward side and stooped slightly to look out through the traditional maritime porthole. He was looking out of starboard side to a calm English Channel, or to the local people of France ‘La Manche.’ Tumblety eagerly anticipated a quiet journey where he would keep his need to venture from the cabin to a minimum and only after dark if at all. He was fully aware that although no one would find him if checking the passenger manifest for the name Tumblety, the police may have posted officers to watch passengers on all trans Atlantic ships calling at or sailing from Britain. He would keep any forays out onto the deck to a minimum and have most services brought to his cabin pleading sea sickness as a reason for his reclusive ness. Satisfied with his surroundings he would unpack later in the day and wanted to witness the departure from the quayside in the cool French coastal air on deck.

He ended up stood portside as the ropes were untied and cast away by the dock workers and watched as the ship moved and the heavy twill ropes made mighty splashes falling into the murky dock-side water. The decks were full of people squeezing up against the ornate iron balustrades of ‘La Bretagne’ waving and cheering to the crowds on the quayside mirroring their actions. Tumblety scanned the crowds idly as the ship moved slowly away his gaze eventually falling to the front of the throng of people on the quayside. There stood against the waist high railings by where the gang planks had been he noticed two very anxious looking smartly dressed men who had pushed their way forward. He unwittingly made eye contact with them as they looked up with an apparent sense of futility on their faces with the ship now many yards from the dock-side. One of them, a man of about 40 years of age wearing a bowler hat caught Tumblety’s look directly, his eyes noticeably widening as he did so and immediately nudging the other younger man with him and pointing up directly at the doctor.

‘Damn it!’ thought Tumblety ‘it’s the Goddamn cops!’ He instantly withdrew from the ships edge, furious he had been seen knowing now that the Metropolitan Police would wire New York’s Police Department with no way now of preventing his arrival from being put under surveillance. He pulled back to the iron sides of the upper deck enclosing the first class accommodation pressing himself bolt upright out of view behind the crowds of passengers and carried on cursing heavily in his mind. ‘How the hell do I get round this?’ He would spend the early part of the voyage considering this matter deeply to get the authorities at both ends off his scent.

Inspector Walter Andrews spoke to the young detective constable working alongside of him with them both having spotted Tumblety.

“Bugger it! Right we’ve missed the boat so we can’t follow him ourselves to New York. But we can send a wire to the NYPD and get them to watch him at the other end until a team can get there. Let’s get to the telex office to let Abberline know. Least we know where the bastard is headed for now.”

“Boss, can’t we get on a smaller boat to intercept him if we go and see the Surete now?” asked the young DC.

“Why bother, he can’t get off until New York. How could we miss him at the other end?”

This optimistic view by Inspector Andrews, who would ultimately head the team who travelled to New York, would prove to be unfounded by Tumblety’s guile yet again and fuel the enduring enigma of the Whitechapel Murders.

***

Monday 26
th
November the very next evening and the cunning American doctor had already hatched a plan to create a deception for him to give the slip to any police surveillance. He made his way to ‘steerage’ and found himself wandering around the impromptu parties and small drinking groups in the communal areas of the lowest of the classes. The atmosphere was warm and actually quite humid as a result of the sheer volume of humanity in the area and smelt strongly of a multitude of scents; body odours, tobacco smoke, alcohol and fried foods. Everyone was dressed in working class clothing and all age groups frequented the communal areas with children running around playing tag type games and a group of working men playing a selection of instruments including a harmonica, accordion and banjo. They jammed together in a harmonious way that encouraged couples young and old to dance in pairs or in groups. Tumblety very purposefully observed all the males of about his own age to see who might be suitable to assist him in his plan at a price. He needed to be careful that he found someone that was not intoxicated and would therefore listen with sobriety to his proposition.

As he wandered through and away from the major throng of people, ahead of him he could see a man of around forty-five years leaning against the ships bulkhead slowly drinking from a pint glass of beer. He was of a similar height, medium build so just a little thinner but with well kept hair and a prominent dark moustache. Perfect for his burgeoning plan. He appeared to be simply enjoying the taste of the beer and not the long term volumetric intoxicating effect; he was himself watching the revellers keenly as he drank. He noticed the American approaching him and made and maintained eye contact with him, displaying to Tumblety a man of confidence and caution. He was dressed in heavy corduroy trousers, a collarless blue shirt with a neck tie, heavy black leather working boots. Despite trying to appear casual and blend in to the surroundings of steerage, the man could see it was obvious that the American who approached him was not travelling on this deck. As Tumblety neared him, he stood up straight away from the wall he had seemed to have been supporting. The American spoke to him.

“Evening, fine entertainment down here, beer and accommodation any good?” The steerage man paused looking Tumblety up and down before speaking.