The Law Killers (8 page)

Shortly before 7 p.m. that evening, Bury went for another walk, but this time with a macabre purpose. Deeply agitated and nervous, he threw on his short black overcoat over his tweed suit, adjusted his felt hat, and – after locking up the flat and swiftly climbing the seventeen stairs from the dingy basement – wound his way down King Street, picking his way between the high tenements by the light of the gas lamps on both sides of the road. As he approached police headquarters in Bell Street, his pace quickened and his heart thumped. He barely lifted his head to see where he was going, for over and over in his head he was rehearsing the extraordinary tale he was about to tell.

By the time he turned into the police offices at the far end of the street, Bury’s breathing had become so rapid that he became enveloped in the clouds of expired breath vaporising in front of him that frosty February evening.

Without pausing to regain his composure, he at once asked to speak privately to the senior officer on duty. He was seen by Lieutenant James Parr and in a rush of words told him that Ellen was dead. She had taken her own life a week earlier, he said breathlessly. Now he was frightened he would be arrested as Jack the Ripper. On the previous Monday, he anxiously explained, they had both been drinking heavily and had sunk into a stupor, so much so that he had no recollection of the rest of the night or when they had gone to bed. The next morning, through a drunken haze, he spotted Ellen dead on the floor, apparently brought about by some form of self-strangulation with a rope, which was still round her neck.

Lieutenant Parr, unsure whether he was listening to the ramblings of a demented madman or actually having an extraordinary death reported to him, was further astonished by what came next. Bury, his words tumbling from his mouth, explained that the sight of his dead wife had caused him to be seized by some kind of mad impulse and he had picked up a nearby knife and inexplicably started plunging it into her body. Then, overcome with remorse and in a deep panic that he would be accused of being Jack the Ripper, he had bent up the corpse of his mutilated wife and rammed it into the large packing case he had brought with him from London. In the following days, he said, he had been uncertain what to do next and had wanted to take time to think. He had acted as normally as possible and on more than one occasion had some cronies round for games of dominoes, using the box with Ellen’s contorted body inside as the gaming table.

The police lieutenant was stunned by the startling story he had just heard, but, resisting his instincts to dismiss Bury as one of the mentally disturbed citizens who occasionally found their way into police offices, decided not to take any chances. He escorted Bury to a separate room and ordered a constable to remain with him. Then he despatched Lieutenant David Lamb (head of the detective department) and Detective Peter Campbell to the basement at 113 Princes Street, to investigate, taking with them the key Bury had handed over.

Inside, the flat smelled of stale alcohol and something neither officer could easily identify. Lamb went straight to the back room where the three-foot long, three-foot deep, square-shaped box described by Bury dominated the scene. Prising this box open, Lamb recoiled at the ghastly sight before his eyes. Partly covered by a sheet was the near-naked corpse of Ellen Bury, her body twisted awkwardly to fit into her gruesome coffin. Her abdomen had been ripped apart by five or six knife slashes, one particularly long, deep gash exposing the entrails. There were deep red marks on her throat. Beside the mutilated body, which was already in the early stages of decay, were the New Testament, a hymn book, prayer book and other papers, books and some clothing. On the nearby window ledge lay a blood-stained knife with scraps of flesh and hair attached and, on the floor, a length of cord, also with some hairs adhering to it. In the hearth were the remnants of burnt ladies’ clothing and the buttons which had adorned it.

The lieutenant swiftly took in the rest of the scene in the sparsely furnished bedroom and noted some empty beer bottles, a whisky flask, and a cigar box containing dominoes. The iron bedstead, bought a week earlier by Bury in the Greenmarket, had its sheets tidily folded back, as though someone had just risen.

A brief search also unearthed a document which read:

January 12, 1889

We, Messrs. Malcolm, Ogilvy & Co. Ltd., Dundee, do hereby agree to take into our employ W. H. and E. N. Bury of No. 3 Spanby Road, London, E. for a period of 7 years. Wages for W.H.B. £2 per week; wages for E. B. £1 per week. To enter duty as soon as Possible. Travelling expenses will Be allowed after one Month from Date of entering employment.

Messrs. Malcolm, Ogilvy & Co.,

Dundee.

W. H. Bury,

Pro. Tem. Ellen Bury.

Witness – William James Hawkins

Lieutenant Lamb left Detective Campbell to stand guard over the grisly death scene and strode quickly from the flat to summon the presence of the police surgeon and the Procurator Fiscal.

From that moment on, William Henry Bury, the insignificant, drunken drifter who had mysteriously decided to set sail from London to settle in a Scottish city he knew nothing of, assumed a worldwide notoriety that has continued to surround him for over a hundred years. Piecing together the strands of the Burys’ flight from the Whitechapel area of London, the nature of the unfortunate Ellen’s injuries and the references to Jack the Ripper, news agencies quickly made the link to what had happened at 113 Princes Street and the back alleys of the brothel areas of London. The address of the dingy basement floor in an unfashionable part of Dundee was soon to be telegraphed round the world. Within days newspapers as far away as America were proclaiming that Bury and the Ripper were one and the same person, even though he had still to stand trial for the only crime he had been charged with.

In Dundee, news of Bury’s arrest, and the possible links with the London maniac who had stalked the back alleys of Whitechapel, spread like wildfire. The day after Bury’s breathless admissions at police headquarters, large groups of men, women and children queued outside newsagents to read the third edition of
The Courier
which published at 1 p.m. and gave a full account of what had been found in Princes Street. From then until early evening, when a fall of heavy snow sent them scurrying home, crowds descended on the basement flat to jostle for a position which might give them a glimpse between the crimson curtains over the broken kitchen window into the scene of horror.

Those who got close enough to the winding staircase leading to the flat gasped at what they saw written in chalk on a door at the bottom of the stairs – ‘Jack Ripper is at the back of this door’ – and on a wall – ‘Jack Ripper is in this seller (
sic
)’. Although the writing looked childish, it appeared to have been there for some time.

Meanwhile, other unexpected discoveries had been made at police headquarters after the detention of the flat’s occupant. Shortly after arriving in Bell Street on the Sunday evening, Bury had been seen by Constable McKay, the acting bar officer, who instantly recognised him as the man who had twice visited the public benches of the Police Court some days earlier and intently followed proceedings. On each occasion he occupied the same seat at the rear of the courtroom. The first visit had taken place on Monday, 4 February, less than twenty-four hours before Ellen Bury had met her appalling end. The second was two days afterwards, on the Thursday. When interrogated on the matter, Bury frankly admitted his presence, saying he was eager to see how Scottish justice operated.

The police were intrigued by another finding after they arrested Bury for Ellen’s murder. When his pockets were searched before he was taken off to the cells, they found a large quantity of jewellery, consisting of several rings, a number of pairs of earrings, a ladies’ silver watch, two lockets and chain, and two brooches. In addition were two rings he always wore on the little fingers of each hand and which he told anyone who asked were his ‘wedding presents’. Police assumed that at least two of the rings in Bury’s possession were Ellen’s, since the usual ones she wore on her wedding finger were missing from the corpse.

The eagerly awaited trial took place on 28 March 1889, when Bury pled not guilty and appeared before Lord Young at a sitting of the Dundee Spring Circuit Court. The crowd which packed the court-room was desperate for a sight of the man the world was starting to believe was Jack the Ripper. When at last he stepped into the dock, people leaned forward in anticipation. Gasps of surprise echoed round the courtroom. Strangers seated next to each other on the public benches whispered together in disappointment. Instead of some brooding ogre easily capable of the most unimaginable atrocities, they were faced by a small, dapper man, almost timid in his looks, sitting meekly between two towering police constables. He wore a felt hat and dark, tweed suit and carried a black overcoat neatly folded over one arm. He might have been an elder of their church.

For the next thirteen hours – almost a record sitting for a Dundee court – the spectators on the public benches listened spellbound to every word uttered, sometimes straining to understand the accents of the witnesses who had travelled from London. Bury didn’t even give them the satisfaction of shouting out in protest at some of what was said, particularly when witnesses told of his violent assaults on Ellen or how he quickly used up her money. For the entire day, he sat practically expressionless, leaning forward with his right hand at his chin and listening intently to the proceedings.

Among the principal prosecution witnesses was Mrs Margaret Corney, Ellen’s sister, who two months earlier had waved the Burys off when the
Cambria
set sail from London. She told the court how reluctant she was to see them depart because she somehow thought she would never see Ellen again – partly because two days before they left, Bury had shown her what he claimed was a letter from a Dundee jute firm offering them employment but with a contract that was for seven years. She explained how she had attempted to persuade her sister, who could not read very well, not to accompany Bury north because the job was for such an extended period. Margaret also identified all the jewellery found in the accuser’s pockets as belonging to Ellen, most of it purchased before she met him.

Another key witness for the Crown was Mr David Malcolm, a partner in Malcolm Ogilvy’s, who dismissed the job-offer letter as a complete forgery. Asked how Bury would know of the existence in Dundee of his company, Malcolm told the court that a report had appeared in London newspapers about Ogilvy’s taking over a new works. There was also a jute company in Whitechapel and it was possible Bury had met up with an employee there, who would likely know of Ogilvy’s factory in Dundee. The conclusion was that Bury had forged the letter to help lure Ellen away from London.

Despite the length of the trial, the facts of the case were relatively simple. Mrs Bury was dead and her husband had admitted stabbing the body. But who had carried out the fatal strangulation? The defence case was that Ellen had used a cord to commit suicide, either by hanging herself or by some kind of self-throttling, and that Bury, in a state of panic, had attempted to dispose of her body because he feared being blamed.

Dr (later Sir) Henry Littlejohn and two other medical experts were in no doubt that the marks on Ellen’s neck indicated the cord had been tightened from the rear – ruling out self-strangulation. Two other doctors were brought forward by the defence and they favoured the suicide theory, though they conceded that such an action would be ‘most exceptional’ and ‘almost unprecedented’.

Bury had listened carefully to every word uttered by Dr Littlejohn and when the jury went out at 7 p.m. for supper he too was taken from the courtroom for something to eat. He seemed more upset about what he was given than how the case was going. After remarking that the doctor had been hard on him, he gazed disgustedly at the plate of porridge and milk before him and, after stirring it about for a few moments, protested angrily, ‘That is the kind of thing we give to pigs in England.’ Then he threw down the spoon, lifted the plate and drank the milk in a single gulp.

When the trial resumed, the public benches were still packed by the eager crowd which had sat there all day, most of them going without any food. Darkness had long since fallen when the all-male jury eventually retired but it did not take them long to return with their verdict. After only twenty-five minutes – just the time it took most of them to enjoy a long-awaited smoke – the foreman, farmer John Ramsay, told the hushed courtroom, ‘The jury unanimously find the prisoner guilty as libelled, but strongly recommend him to the mercy of the court.’

The judge, Lord Young, looked startled. ‘On what grounds do you recommend him to mercy?’

Ramsay: ‘Partly from the conflicting medical evidence.’

Lord Young: ‘If you are in doubt about the medical evidence, I must ask you to reconsider your verdict. That is no ground whatever for recommendation to mercy. You must see that. I am afraid I must ask you to reconsider your verdict if you have any doubt as to the guilt of the prisoner. You had better retire again and be sure you are quite satisfied this time.’

As the anxious-looking jurors filed out, Bury was led back down to the cells. For the first time since the proceedings had begun, the prisoner finally started to show some emotion, onlookers noting how his ‘hands moved nervously’ and ‘his features became agitated’.