Whitechapel (26 page)

“Want any help, Fred?” Spratling inquired genuinely.

“No, think I’ll be all right, but wait in the wings with a few blokes if you can muster some.”

As the detectives neared the front of the nick they could hear the shouting and jeering from the crowd. They looked at each other prepared for confrontation and burst out through the front doors into Commercial Street standing on the steps looking down on the waiting mob being stirred up by the ranting of a man Abberline would shortly discover was George Lusk. He listened to this man for a few moments and his trouble-making impassioned speech.

“So what have the police done for you, eh? Or the government? They don’t give a monkey’s cuss about you or me, the working class, they just readily abuse our women and nick us for drunk and take our money for fines. Far as they are concerned we don’t count. Look who’s in charge of the investigation here? Some washed up has-been detective inspector! Where’s the officer of real rank co-ordinating the action on the streets.”

The final comment of Lusk’s ranting was heard clearly by Abberline as he emerged into the open air and was enough to launch him into action. Lusk had his back to the police station despite some of the crowd’s obvious reaction to something occurring behind him. Abberline strolled purposefully up to Lusk who was wielding his walking stick and grabbed the stick out of his hand and tossed it to one side behind them. The stunned Lusk turned to face him open mouthed and speechless and was immediately spun back round by Abberline to face the crowd and put into an arm lock using Lusk’s right arm twisted and placed high up his back in between his shoulder blades. Abberline turned and began forcibly marching him into the police station as the crowd fell silent, aghast at the action unfolding before them. As he was dragged off Lusk struggled, pointlessly, and began to shout to try to whip up the crowd to come to his aid.

“Police brutality! Police brutality! Help me, storm the nick and free me, show how the people can deal with law and order without the police.” His last line was barely heard by the crowd as he disappeared into the police station. The crowd were impelled to act and began to rush towards the doors, but inside Godley instructed Spratling, Kerby and a few uniformed officers to head out and disperse the crowd as Abberline wrestled Lusk to the charge room.

Six officers ran from the doors to intercept the crowd waving truncheons aloft to begin to break up the protesters. Punches, bottles, pieces of wood all flew or flailed in the air as despite receiving injuries themselves the police began to beat back the crowd and break up the gathering. At least four others would be joining Lusk inside the bowels of The Street whilst the majority quickly gave up the fight. Spratling had a stark warning.

“Go home! There’s enough to do round here without you lot thinking you can do better. We know most of you, gather like this again and we’ll crack more heads. Now piss off!” The crowds moaning and cussing under their breath dispersed begrudgingly.

Abberline barged straight past the custody sergeant in the charge room and bundled Lusk into an open cell and let go his grip pushing Lusk forwards hard so he fell onto the wooden bench on the far side of the cell.

“Now then, Lusk you slag, what the fuck do you think you’re up to eh?”

“How do you know my name, Abberline?”

“Look here, you pretend middle class Masonic twat, parading around as a man of the working class, I know everything, ‘cos the washed up detective in charge has trod these streets for more nights than you’ve drank port with your apron clad mates.”

“Well you ain’t doing much about the murders are you, filth.”

“I’ll tell you, Lusk, and you can tell your mates, we’re doing more than you’ll ever know, we lost one of our own murdered, probably by this Ripper bastard and he was a working class lad. Now you spout off when you’re drunk in the pubs, fine. Bring it into the streets and I’ll have you doing more bird in Newgate than you’ll know what do with. Do I make myself clear?”

“You can’t stop us trying to catch him, Abberline.”

“I tell you this, Lusk, do it if you want one of your hooligans with his throat cut and left to drown in his own blood, then carry on. I suggest you do something that doesn’t leave you with blood on your hands. I see you again; there’ll be more fucking trouble than you’ll know how to handle, with your drunken mates and all.” Abberline stormed out of the cell slamming the door and paced up to the custody sergeant and barked an order to him.

“In an hours time you drag that fucker out and caution him for incitement to cause violent disorder. Tell him does it again and his world will fall around him and even his ever so helpful Masonic mates will disown him.” Abberline left to go back to the incident room to prepare the days briefings.

***

Hours later as a result of the excessive alcohol he had drunk the night before, Robert Ford found himself back in his own lodgings with a massive hangover and absolutely no recollection of the events of the evening following the discovery earlier in the day of Del’s murder. He was laying face down on the bed with no sign of Mary having been around and wearing no clothes on his top half. He rubbed his bleary eyes and felt the room spinning as he tried to get up off of the bed. Eventually with a great feeling of nausea he managed to find himself sat on the edge of the bed with his head cradled in his hands. With his best friend dead he had to make contact with Mary and get her out of the city, he couldn’t bear two tragedies to befall him. He felt she must be sheltering at Millers Court with some of her unfortunate friends to keep them company in a time of such widespread fear. There was a pail of cold water in the room that he managed to shuffle himself over to and found it was luckily three quarters full. He submerged his entire head in the tin bucket for at least 15-20 seconds to try re-vitalising his muzzy head. It worked, and he proceeded to freshen up the rest of himself with it too removing the rest of his clothes to clean away the foul stench of a drunken night from the rest of his lean body before getting changed into some clean clothes to head out to find Mary.

He strolled off along Bakers Row before picking up cut through side streets that brought him out close to Hanbury Street, the location of the murder of Annie Chapman. He made his way past the Spitalfields market from there and eventually stood outside the grotty door of Millers Court, he knocked hard on the door. There was no apparent answer.

***

A shuffling tramp walked into George Chapman’s hairdressing shop demanding a trim up in broken, mumbled English. Severin Klosowski ordered him to speak up and then demanded that he show that he had money to pay for the cut before actually inviting him to a seat to carry out the task on this filthy street dwelling individual. He took a seat in front of a mirror and Klosowski placed a wrap around his dirty clothes to stop the cut hair sticking to him. He examined Aaron Kosminski’s fetid scalp and saw a multitude of very dry skin and some hair ticks crawling.

“My friend, the best thing you can do is to have it all shaved off to stop the onset of any infections beyond what you already have. I must spray you with powder to kill the ticks you have for your sake and mine.”

“Do whatever, cut it all off might stop me fucking scratching.” Whilst he served his mucky customer Klosowski thought about the fact it had been some time since he had had a street walking woman. Maybe he would venture into Commercial Street tonight and try and seek out the one they call Fair Emma, one of the East End’s few pretty prostitutes.

***

Druitt sat lonely in his dwellings at the school in Blackheath having told the headmaster he was not well enough today to take classes, which with his outstanding teaching record was massively out of character. He contemplated how to deal with Dr Tumblety. ‘Vicious American bastard’ he thought, he needed to shop him or set him up in someway, ensuring that it must not lead back to him. He would find it almost impossible to live with the guilt of being party to the murder of a police officer, if he really was, and felt compelled to do something to clear his conscience. Out of character he was drinking a bottle of cheap blended whisky to try to blur the fear from his mind. It helped, after half a bottle he was unconscious and his mind empty albeit for a short time of any of the concerns in his life.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 

2.p.m and the parade room at The Street was brimming with everyone going off duty and all those coming on plus the detectives working on the Ripper case, the number of which had now more than doubled just working from this police station. There were also others preparing an incident room at Scotland Yard itself. Members of the local press also were in attendance. Abberline walked in followed by Godley each clutching a wad of information relating to the murders so far; pictures, statements, post mortem reports and scenes of crime plans all to be passed around the officers on parade for them to become fully familiar with what everyone was now dealing with. A hush enveloped the room as Abberline and Godley took to the lecterns at the front of the parade room.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen, and thank you to all who are staying beyond their norm and to those of you having got here early. We shall be brief and to the point as being honest we don’t know who we are looking for. As you know most witness statements are from those who were drunk and so we have contradictions in descriptions in height, clothing, facial descriptions and class. But we do know that this person does indulge in the services of prostitutes regularly and seems to want to only kill them. Again as you know this comes from the fact that the only victim outside of that group was Constable Lake, but even he was dressed as a woman of that class. It could be more than one killer working individually; it could be more than one working together. We don’t know. DS Godley will pass around details on all we know thus far, so before anyone leaves I want you all to have a good look through the reports to think about venues, maybe the types of men to watch around the local girls; probably anyone, and times of the crimes. This is your community and the people who have confidence in you all are being affected and because of a man called George Lusk they may start to lose faith in you. DS Godley has a picture of this man too. Take his face on board as he could stir things up in front of you or certainly at any crime scene. If things get nasty or you see him gathering a mob get on your whistles and get on them loud. Any questions?”

“Guv’nor, any more plain clothes ops?” asked a contemporary of Del Lake.

“Yes, volunteers only and dressed as local men.”

“Mr Abberline, how do you feel about this murderer naming himself, sir?”

“Will Bates, of The Star isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, saves you giving a name, unless you know something we don’t. It’s probably just a local hack who devised the letter.”

“I take offence at that.”

“Yes, but you can’t deny that isn’t beyond the realms of possibility? Still, if he is arrogant enough to name himself then he’s cocky enough to eventually make a mistake.” Bates nodded his head and sagged his lips in apparent agreement.

“Boss, what’s the score with the City Police involvement?” asked Kerby.

“They may help with extra patrols, but not yet. Especially as nothing has happened on their ground”

Eventually the questioning fizzled out and the officers of all ranks present passed around the reports and statements among themselves and the members of the press were asked to leave. All were checked as they left to ensure they hadn’t tried to take any confidential documents. Godley was on the door supervising the action. A uniformed officer dealt with Bates.

“Bloody police state this, George.” Bates addressed Godley.

“No it’s not, Bates, it’s to ensure you don’t spread any more panic. And it’s Detective Sergeant Godley.”

“You rozzers just don’t understand the press. And it’s Mr Bates to you, George.”

“Hit the road, Bates.”

By three o’clock the parade room was empty and the detectives had retired to the incident room, some preparing to walk the streets in the enigmatic quest for Jack the Ripper.

***

Sunday 29
th
September, evening and Robert Ford paced along the Whitechapel Road on his way to check The Ten Bells and The Britannia public houses to see if he could find Mary. He hoped that along the way he may find some of her existing social group to quiz on her whereabouts, although that circle was being depleted by murder or the fear of murder scaring them from the streets. The sites and sounds of the area seemed different now that he walked without police warrant but his loyalty to his community remained strong sensing he would deal with matters that were linked to the crimes of this fiend now given a name. As he passed St Mary’s Church on the corner of Church Lane he stood still and dumb founded as he saw an advertising poster for Finius T. Barnums touring European spectacular. On it was a multitude of images that included those of U.S Civil War cavalry types wielding, some of them at least, cutlasses.

So what of the button that he had been shown by Abberline? Did it belong to one of these individuals? The images were hand rendered and did not show that amount of detail. Was this a clue for him to tackle on his own account or information to pass to Abberline to consider, that being if he already hadn’t. He decided to seek out Mary first.

Strolling through the doors of The Britannia he scanned the saloon bar area which although early evening was still becoming crowded with the Sunday night revellers. His heart soared as he stared across at a group of women huddled around a table near the bar and saw Liz Stride, Cathy Eddowes and Mary. Stride was the first one to look across and he could see her nudge the others who both looked at him. Mary’s face lit up with a beaming smile; she stood and ran over to him throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

“Robert, where have you been?” He looked at her with tears welling in his eyes.

“I could ask you the same question. You haven’t been at my lodgings or at yours. Where have you been these past days?”