Whitechapel (22 page)

Robert’s blood was now up and his mind wandered back to the murder of young Ralph. Why was this dog acting so deranged towards this individual he was chasing? Could it really be something as obvious as that he was the boy’s killer? They passed into Dock Street going through the junction with Cable Street where to one side was a parade of shops that included Chapman’s hairdressers. The cleric frantically and frequently looked behind him to discover the proximity of his pursuer and saw that no matter how hard he drove the horse he did not seem able to shake him off. Eventually he turned off of what was to become Tower Bridge Approach and headed down towards the bustling St Katherine’s Dock where he might be able to dump the cab and lose himself amongst the deserted fish market stalls. Robert’s cab began really closing on the clerics with the dog now sitting bolt upright and focused on watching the cab in front sniffing the air intently. It had not only been the sight of the cleric that Bruiser had picked up on but also the smell. It was etched into the dog’s mind now and he could smell revenge, should a dog be able to sense that emotion.

The cleric pulled hard on the reins as he neared St Katherine’s Dock and the horse slipped violently on the cobbles as he did so. He needed to lose speed but had left it too late. The horse instinctively sensed this and gave up trying to stop and saw an open area on its left and tried to turn into it. The horse’s violent manoeuvre immediately tipped the carriage over with the cleric letting go of the reins as he was thrown onto the cobbles harshly landing on his already damaged shoulder. He cried out in pain and cursed from the hard fall which tore skin from the side of his face as he slid along the cobbles. He struggled to his feet and with the impact injuries weighing him down he began to limp off towards the quayside and its fish stalls. Although empty, they created a maze of cover. Robert had pre-empted the cleric’s actions and had managed to stop safely as he saw the loose horse now drag the sideways cab along for a short distance until it stopped through fatigue only several yards along the open entrance. Before he could even drop the reins and dismount the cab, Bruiser was off and running with the intention now of solely stalking down this human nemesis.

“Bruiser, come here!” Robert cried in vein but to no effect as the dog was off and hunting. Although the light had nearly completely faded the gas lamps provided a good substitute and Bruiser could make out a vague shape in amongst the stalls but most importantly he could smell his prey, and it’s fear.

The cleric found a rancid smelling stall he thought might be able to use to put the dog off his smell and rolled himself in the tarpaulin that draped the display part of the stall. It was covered in decaying fish remnants; bones, flesh, scales all creating a hideous stench. He then scurried away from it and noted another stall finished with a decorative skirting which he could use to hide behind and under the stall. He rolled under it concealing himself wincing in pain as the moved over his injured shoulder and gagging with the intense smell of the rotting fish.

Bruiser entered the alley among the stalls he had seen the cleric disappear behind and went from a run to a trot having now lost sight of his prey and relying on smell. Robert eventually closed in behind him breathing hard from a fifty yard sprint and spoke softly to the dog. “Good lad, Bruiser, good lad,” and watched the dog keenly sniff the air. Having lost sight of the cleric himself too the dog was his best chance of finding him safely and maybe quickly. The quayside fish market was deserted and eerily quiet with only the sound of the Thames lapping nearby and the occasional sound of gulls. The gaslights created a haunting glow. The dog slowly moved from stall to stall sniffing intently all around them, and at the second one stopped and heavily examined its scent. “Well done, Bruiser, good lad, go on, pick him up fellow,” encouraged Robert. The dog stopped dead. What had he discovered? Robert became tense and reached inside his jacket to a pocket containing his truncheon. The dog was transfixed it seemed for an eternity on this one spot. He then moved sharply sideways on to it, cocked a leg and urinated on the spot. He trotted on contently stall to stall until again stopping at the one with the foul smelling tarpaulin with its rotting remnants and again began studying it in great detail. He seemed to spend what Robert thought again was an eternity and the policeman was now becoming disillusioned,

“Bruiser, if this just a piss trip then just empty your bladder and let’s go.”

The dog began to snarl with his sniffing this time and could astutely pick out the cleric’s scent from the fish. He trotted on sniffing the ground towards the skirted stall under which the cleric was still cowering and sweating profusely.

Bruiser paused next to it and took a long pause sniffing it up and down while the cleric only feet away under the stall pulled his knife ready to defend himself. He could sense the dog to his side at the front of the stall where he rolled in. Bruiser charged in from the end of stall nearest the cleric’s head and bit hard into his scalp repeatedly. The dog kept savaging his head and the shock of the attack had caused the cleric to drop his knife and flail with hands to defend himself which were in turn savaged as his head was.

His legs kicked out from under the skirt near Robert who immediately grabbed one of them and dragged the cleric out and Bruiser along with him attached to his already weakened left arm. Despite the facial injuries from the crash and the dog’s attack Robert could now see immediately that it was Michael Ostrog. In his heavy Russian accent he screamed at Robert.

“Get this thing from me, please, please!” The dog proved hard for Robert to control, it was intent on attack as a self defence mechanism. It took him about a minute of pulling Bruiser by the tail and the scruff of his neck to get the dog off. Having done that he took hold of the flailing rope still attached to dog and tied him to a stall. Ostrog misguidedly thought the worst attack was over.

Robert with his truncheon in hand knelt down across the chest of the injured Ostrog and holding the weapon with a hand at each end placed it flat across Ostrog’s throat.

“Now then, you fucker, did you kill the boy that owns that dog. Tell me or I will let him finish you off while I hold you down. TELL ME!” Ostrog in pain and fear, two feelings he normally only inflicted rather than received, blurted out his answer almost instantly with the dog snarling and snapping and trying to get to him pulling hard on the rope that bound him and with the pressure Robert was applying slowing increasing on his throat.

“Yes, Yes! I did it, what are you his father you English scum, he’s an urchin so what! Just get off my throat!” The screaming of his answer got his breathing working again and the fight or flight emotions began to kick in for Ostrog as the primitive section of his emotional state began to take control. He began to struggle and buck under Robert’s weight who had, as a precaution, pinned his arms to his sides as he knelt on him. “Don’t bother, Ostrog, it won’t work out,” Robert said coldly ensuring his weight remained firmly on him. Before the Russian could answer he began pushing down hard with the truncheon cutting off Ostrog’s air supply.

Robert’s sense of right and wrong over Ralph had taken on a biblical context, an issue which he felt no shame about; only revenge for a young life wasted by someone so evil. Bruiser could sense Ostrog’s life ebbing away and began to become calmer as the struggling lessened with Robert’s pressure on his quarry’s wind pipe. The pressure was so great he heard it crack as it gave way. Within just over a minute the dog was laying on the floor making a gentle whimper with his head resting on his paws as Ostrog lay perfectly still and lifeless. Robert sat back on his haunches to survey what he had done and contemplated his next move. He would not go to the gallows for scum like this.

Robert dragged the body over to the quayside and then untied the dog who also wandered over to quayside and sat peacefully watching his new master. Robert collected about 80 pounds of lead weights used to tie down the stall’s awnings. He tied them all to Ostrog and rolled him over into the river with the body dropping limply into the fast flowing water and showing no signs of resurfacing, just a few lone bubbles coming up to the surface. Ostrog’s notorious criminal mantle would be taken on by his younger brother. Equally vicious in his own way but living off his brother’s reputation, he would spend the rest of his criminal life by claiming to be the noted Michael; although never knowing what had happened to his brother.

Robert sat himself on the quayside gently next to the old dog and began slowly stroking him as he did so. They both stared out into the dark moonlit river and each gave out a big sigh of contentment. Robert pondered his life sat there for some time.

Elsewhere events were unfolding in alarming way which Robert would only discover when it was too late. The murder of a worthless public enemy would soon be expunged from his mind as the investigation into the Whitechapel killings faced a major setback.

***

Inside The Ten Bells Del stood quietly at the end of the bar by himself watching the movements of the varied clientele in and out of the pub and around its interior. Although not totally comfortable in disguise even after several tours of duty working in this way, he was at least feeling more at home with the nature of his work. The atmosphere was typically noisy with a high level constant drone of a myriad of conversations with the occasional raised voice or screeching laughter. He saw soldiers drinking with soldiers exchanging battlefield stories, working men discussing the latest demands from their tyrannical employers and a variety of men chatting to the unfortunates to establish a price for their services and a location to go and do business. Looking around the room he had noted two well to do gentlemen enter the pub who were now sat by themselves engrossed in conversation and sipping from tankards of ale. One sported a large handlebar moustache and a military type uniform whilst the other bore a striking resemblance to the Queen’s grandson.

Del was too far away to be able to hear the conversation these men were having. Tumblety was an astute observer of human behaviour as a result of his years on the medicine show circuit in America, and as a result of brushes with the law. He prided himself on spotting when people looked out of place or uncomfortable in what they were doing, and now tonight he had seen two individuals that he knew did not blend naturally with the squalid surroundings so well. He had guessed that as a result of his actions and those of the perpetrator of the other murder that the police would have the area under substantial scrutiny. He could curse whoever had killed Annie Chapman as he knew she might have taken him one step further to Mary Kelly; still the prostitutes ran such a close knit community the loss of one out of his hands wouldn’t significantly delay his quest. Even so it was one less set of trophies for his sickening collection.

“Montague, have you seen any body that looks out of place to you tonight?” Druitt surveyed the bar for some seconds before returning an answer to the Doctor.

“Well, not really, the lady at the end of the bar” pointing to Del “is a little masculine but not unpleasant, and otherwise we are surrounded by the usual goings on.”

“Masculine, huh? Ever thought it could be a man in disguise to catch the murderer? Could be a cop?”

“Well, no, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind, old chap. But then why should it?” He looked back at Tumblety quizzically.

“Didn’t you see that fellow on the other side of the road tonight as we arrived with the dog? I have never seen a working class man with a pipe handle it so badly and so unnaturally. He wasn’t a smoker in normal terms; he was another cop, out in disguise obviously trying to catch the killer. But they also might interfere with our merry making, old friend”

“But why should they, they’re not bothered by illicit shagging in the alleys are they? You’re bloody paranoid and I don’t know why.” Druitt looked away and drank from his tankard wondering what this conversation was all about. What difference did it make to them if the police were using disguises?

Tumblety realised he was courting attention to himself on the subject and might draw unwelcome suspicion from his friend. He rapidly changed the subject but thought hard about his next move that night. “Hey, Monty lets go up to the Commercial Street Tavern, I fancy a change of scenery.”

“All right, haven’t been there for a while. There might actually be some reasonable looking toms in there.” They downed their drinks and made their way to the door through the bustling and cajoling crowds of the pub.

Del had been watching these two using the mirror behind the bar to avoid attention from them and just felt an inkling about the uniformed stranger. Thinking back to the briefings for the very first murder of this gruesome series he pondered the uniform connection. As the two gents left through the doors he decided to follow to see where they were going to next. He felt compelled just to watch this man’s actions tonight. He couldn’t see Robert and assumed he had melted very well into the East End throng tonight and felt sure he would shadow his every move for safety.

The two gents made their way north in Commercial Street towards the police station which stood practically opposite the Commercial Street Tavern public house. As a building it was not dissimilar to the Ten Bells as it stood on a corner plot with its doors opening out from the front corner onto the main street revealing a single saloon bar. He followed at quite some distance dodging lecherous drunks as he did so and felt sure that neither was aware of his presence keeping them under surveillance.

He was quite right, both Tumblety and Druitt were unaware of his actions as they strolled along the squalid East End thoroughfare happily laughing and joking and planning to get properly drunk in the next venue. Del paid casual attention behind to see if he could spot Robert. His friend had proved such a reliable colleague and good friend over time he felt sure that he must be there but at a very discreet distance. He saw Tumblety and Druitt reach the doors; as they were about to enter a giant of a man burst through them holding on to a scrawny youthful drunk by the collar at the rear of his jacket. He was swarthy with a heavy rough looking cane under one arm as he threw the drunk out on the street. The un-coordinated loose limbed body rolled off the kerb into the gutter and lay there simply groaning and then promptly rolling onto his front and vomiting. Tumblety and Druitt stood back to watch this take place to avoid any soiling of themselves as the swarthy man watched from the open bar doors. A bandy legged brindle coloured English Bull Terrier wandered up to the open doors from inside and stared at the drunk with his narrow slit like eyes and barked at him by what was obviously his master’s side.