Whitechapel (66 page)

“I can’t do that.”

“Really? Is this because of your damned ‘Brotherhood’?”

“You know all about that do you, Ford?”

“Yes. I don’t give a shit. Re-open the investigation, or I go public with this about you,” he said gesturing to the nervous unfortunate. Anderson casually turned his back on Ford and walked round to his chair behind the desk and sat down. He opened a drawer of the desk and pulled out a large thick cigar and a box of matches. He rolled the cigar by his left ear and then placed it in his mouth. Pulling a match from its box as he opened it he struck the red phosphorous head against the striking plate on the box and lit the cigar and coolly and slowly drew on it until it glowed brightly and evenly. Julia and Ford both looked on incredulously at the casual calmness of his actions in such a compromising scenario.

“Ford, come and sit down. You, girl,” said Anderson to Julia “Go and pour two large malts please. Then you can fuck off.” To Ford the use of such coarse language from one so refined and eloquent seemed very out of place. He was shocked by Anderson’s confident and calm actions and had no immediate reply. Trying to get a grasp of the situation, he did as he was told and came and sat down opposite Anderson in one of the austere wooden chairs. He gathered his thoughts as Anderson spoke.

“This is bigger than you and anything you can imagine. There is no investigation to be re-opened because there is no longer any evidence.”

“But, the papers maybe gone; there are still the jars and the bag. You can’t keep this suppressed, not when I now know you use the services of prostitutes, being exposed as a cheap thrill seeker will destroy you.” Robert was certain that he must still have an upper hand as he spoke.

“No. The bag is gone; I passed it onto the burgeoning forensic department to destroy once they had examined it for their own experience. You can’t magic up the hand writing evidence against Tumblety. So you destroy my reputation? Two things on that, one, do you think that people will believe a lowly street constable in our society, grieving over the loss of his best friend and love and racked by emotion over a respected senior police officer? Hmm? Just look at my reputation, it is glowing. And second, do you think with all I have done to protect The Brotherhood I will be scared to become a scape goat of some kind? I would have to retire from public life but I’d be looked after. Would you?

Julia approached the table and placed a generous tumbler full of single malt whisky in front of each of them.

“And what about her, surely it concerns you that she could blow the whistle on you or black mail you?” asked Ford watching the young woman step away from the table.

“Not really.” In a rapid movement Anderson reached back into the drawer he had used earlier and pulled out a revolver and pointed it at Julia. He pulled back the hammer action which set with a loud click. He pulled the trigger. To Ford the room for a fraction of a second froze as he tried to comprehend what he had just seen in relation to the sounds. There had been a another loud click only and no sound of a shot so he realised that everyone still sitting or standing was the right picture he should be seeing. He could hear running water; looking down at Julia’s feet he could see fluid running onto the floor from under her skirt. He had to confess to himself that Anderson was indeed a ruthless and determined man. Events from the canal back flooded back to him to re-enforce this view.

“Do you honestly think that there would much of an investigation into the murder of a prostitute? They are hardly unusual these days are they? Don’t underestimate me or what I am prepared to do. You have nothing. Go away, enjoy your career, or what you may have left of it, and live a sad unfulfilled working class life.”

Ford felt belittled, exactly as Anderson had intended. But Anderson had said nothing about him entering his office.

“But, what about tonight?” He asked Anderson who was gradually filling the room with more smoke.

“Granted, you have that on me. I shan’t pursue that matter, not having bribed the sergeant to let my friend in. Think of it as a battle won against us. But as you know, a battle and not the war.” Ford couldn’t believe he was hearing those words again. He grabbed the tumbler and emptied it. The bitter powerful liquid burnt his throat and he could feel the sensation all the way to the pit of his stomach, which as it began to line it he felt his head go a little light. He got up to leave, lost for words and intending to say nothing and further give Anderson the upper hand.

“Take her out with you, and shut the door when you go,” said Anderson with more self assurance than ever referring to Julia.

Ford had turned towards the door as Anderson spoke. He stopped in his tracks and faced his adversary and replied.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, no. That’s my job as you may have noticed when you saw us come in.” Stunned by the sheer gall of the man to rebut him in such a manner at the last, he walked out and said nothing further. He realised that for now he had won the only battle he was ever going to win.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
 

1903

Tuesday 7
th
April 6.a.m; Severin Klosowski had not had a restful night in his cell on death row in Wandsworth Prison. On the 19
th
March he had been convicted at the Central Criminal Court in London, colloquially known as ‘The Old Bailey’, of ‘The Borough Wife Poisonings’. The presiding judge had been Justice Grantham who had donned the black cap to sentence Klosowski to death following the unanimous guilty verdict on the death of Maud Marsh and two other acts of fatal poisoning on Bessie Taylor and Mary Spink. His plea for clemency to the Home Secretary had failed and he was wakened by guards checking on his condition prior to his last meal who all saw real terror in his face. Klosowski, alias George Chapman, now himself faced death following the reign of terror his own existence had wrought. When arrested by Detective Inspector George Godley in October 1902, Godley’s former colleague and mentor the now retired Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline was reported to have commented to him “I see you have caught a Jack the Ripper at last.”

His cell was a meagre ten feet square with a Spartan harsh cot on which he attempted to sleep. This evil man at last had no control over his own life or that of others and therefore the manner of his death. He had at last become a shell of a man with his only method of escape from his incarceration being the hangman’s rope. A catholic priest arrived at the cell and entered to find Klosowski on his knees and praying on his arrival – a massively uncharacteristic display of religious conviction.

The confession that was taken by this priest would be of a remarkable nature and the contents of which would go with both men to their graves.

“My son, do you wish to make a confession and be granted absolution?” Klosowski was sobbing with all colour from his face drained. He felt sick and found it hard to speak. During this silence the priest administered last rites which when finished had given the evil Polish multiple murderer enough time to compose himself and find a voice.

“Father,” he spoke in a low tone in close proximity to the priest to ensure no one else could hear. “May the Lord forgive? I have sinned greatly and fear that I am only destined to burn in hell. Though I don’t consider myself to be Jack the Ripper I am guilty of some of those killings. One was premeditated and the others spontaneous through violent rage. I have also killed in Paris, on the way to London from Europe. I killed outside of London to affect my escape and I killed in America. If the Lord can find it in his heart I wish to confess and be granted entry to his kingdom.” Tears were rolling down his cheeks from his heavily bloodshot eyes.

The priest, although a man of God, had as human a sentiment as any decent man. He found it hard to speak the traditional words of comfort when he heard such a sickening confession to a multitude of evil unpardonable sins. As he considered his own feelings that this man should indeed burn in the fires of hell, he composed himself to speak the accepted reply that this loathsome individual on his knees before him expected to hear.

“My son, God is an angry God but a forgiving God. You will be granted entry to the Kingdom of Heaven, but never forget when the day of judgement comes, you will be held to account and you will meet your victims again. You must be resolute in your denunciation of your own evil acts. There is no penance I can set you other than the fate you are about to meet. Dare I say it, but my son the Old Testament talks of an ‘eye for an eye’. What do you yourself think? Do not be trite in your request.”

The priest’s words struck home quickly and hard with Klosowski. But he knew he was right. He began to shiver in fear of what was approaching and the harsh comfort that he had been given and felt constantly sick. He was a little deaf to some of the words the priest was now speaking but caught the tale end of the delivery as he saw the priest make the sign of the cross.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, may God bless you and save you. Amen.” The priest then walked out leaving the shivering wreck on the hard cold stone floor. Klosowski knelt alone and terrified, his face buried in his hands, his forehead on the cold floor. He was sobbing.

Just before 7.a.m and shortly after the priest had left, the guards brought in a last meal; a breakfast consisting of bread, butter and coffee. He had become a withdrawn nervous wreck in the face of imminent death and the slightest movement or sound saw him move in startled way like a terrified animal. He made eye contact with everyone who came into contact with him now looking for hope, help and rescue from his fate. He knew that this was really a pointless expression of emotion and merely fear controlling his psyche. He could barely bring himself to eat anything; he was starting to rock backwards and forwards in whatever position he was in, seated, kneeling, standing or otherwise. He was mumbling to himself and only managed two bites from the bread before he threw it into the corner of the cell and kicked the enamel mug holding black coffee across the floor in an act of futile defiance or so it seemed. He was not unsurprisingly slipping into a moody and depressed humour.

Elsewhere within the walls of Wandsworth prison had slept Mr William Billington the executioner for that part of London and his assistant Mr Henry Pierrepoint. This act of sleeping within the prison was a long held tradition and one that both men were happy to adhere to; not because of any sense of joy in their work but through a sense of solemn duty. On the Monday evening before, William Billington tested the gallows with an appropriately weighted sand bag which also had the effect of taking the stretch out of the rope. Billington had been born in 1873 and came from a family of state executioners holding this office from 1902 to 1905. It was a position that he had taken over from his father James who resigned office having been the executioner for the Wandsworth jurisdiction since 1884. He himself also became the London executioner in 1892 having succeeded the famous James ‘Hangman’ Berry.

Perhaps knowing that ultimately his fate would lead to a rendezvous with the executioner, Klosowski had obtained a rare copy of Berry’s book on his work. Being all too aware that he faced a front seat in the proceedings, he feared the remaining hour and minutes of his life having read about what was in store for him in great detail.

Henry Pierrepoint was also an accomplished executioner in his own right despite only being an assistant in these proceedings. He held office from 1901 to 1910 and despatched 117 prisoners in his tenure. Both he and Billington were known for their brisk and efficient work in the hangman’s shed and this morning would prove to be no different. Oddly they were also known for their abilities to keep the prisoner calm in the minutes they were led from their cells to imminent death with a softly spoken and almost caring demeanour in their spoken word.

The prison governor Major Knox gave the orders to commence the execution procedure around 8.a.m. Following his signal the grim face execution team entered the cell lead by Henry Pierrepoint and all observed how terrified Klosowski had become by his shaking and pallor. He was ordered to stand and knew that time to leave this world had come. Attempting to stand, at first he faltered and leaned back against the back wall of the cell in a slump. But before long he was slowly able to stand and with quiet brisk efficiency, born out practice and experience, the team moved forward and prepared him for the gallows with Pierrepoint briskly completing the task of ‘pinioning’; the practice of pinning the condemned man’s arms by their side. This practice was developed from the previous method of tying their arms in front of them which seemed to allow resistance from the prisoner. Klosowski looked on at the work being done around him wide eyed and in an almost trance like state numbed with fear.

Major Knox entered the cell with the pinioning having been completed.

“Prisoner, I don’t know what you said to the padre,” he said pacing the cell in his characteristic black suit and with a lit pipe in his right hand, “this is your chance for some honesty. There are some who believe you are guilty of several others murders, but in the main those perpetrated in Whitechapel fifteen years ago. Your next trial which it has been decided not to go to public expense with would have been for those murders and an attempted murder in Tottenham that same year. Now tell us, we can all bear witness to your confession, are you Jack the Ripper?” The cell was deathly silent. Klosowski’s head was bowed and he was gently sobbing. He looked up slowly into Knox’s face with an expression of helplessness. He appeared unable to speak. After a few seconds, that seemed like an eternity his mouth opened as if to speak.

He began to wretch, then cough and within another few seconds of this accompanied by a violent convulsing movement by his torso he vomited profusely. He wept loudly having ejected the meagre food he had taken in for breakfast and as the execution team held him upright he urinated in his trousers; it running down the inside of his trouser legs onto the floor. He never spoke in a language any of them recognised from that point until the rope dropped.