Whitechapel (43 page)

“I doubt it, I hadn’t long arrived. I was probably enjoying a good Chateau Neuf du Pape and Chateau Briand at the Ritz with some company.”

“Anyone who can confirm that then?” replied Abberline briskly.

“Probably.”

“What about the 31
st
of August, where were you then?”

“Inspector, I don’t keep a diary in my head.”

“And the 7
th
September, and the 30
th
?”

“I may have been in the East End from time to time beginning my research, I just don’t know.”

“Who could confirm your movements?”

“That’s my business right now not yours,” Tumblety was getting fazed.

“Is that so you can prime them first is it?” sniped Abberline.

“HOW DARE YOU!” Tumblety got to his feet.

“Sit down, sir; we are only trying to establish your movements and motivation for being in the East End. Now, what sort of doctor are you?”

“Inspector, this is outrageous. I demand representation or to see a senior officer now.”

“I am the most senior on duty, and you can have a ‘brief’ but it won’t stop the interview. What sort of doctor are you?” Tumblety took a deep breath and answered with knowledge he could support.

“I am a former combat surgeon with the confederate army and I now practice herbal medicine and research its benefits to all. I am quite renowned in the States.” ‘Christ!’ he thought, he had just left himself open. He was renown in New Jersey, New England and New York State but not as Frank Townsend.

“So I could look up your reputation with the embassy then?”

“No, I doubt they’d know me.”

“But they could put me on to someone who does?” asked Abberline. Tumblety had dug a hole for himself and he felt it becoming bottomless.

“They may do, I am only known in a few small towns in each state.”

“So, being a surgeon you would have good anatomical knowledge then?”

“Yes, but any good butcher could do what your Ripper has done.” Abberline took a long pause, he stood up and walked around the back of his chair and then turned to face Townsend leaning on the back of the seat he had vacated.

“You are quite right but why would a butcher take parts of a human body away. A doctor might have a use for them?”

“A butcher or whoever might want to eat them.”

“Yes, I could understand that with a kidney, drawing the comparison with an animal. But what about uteri?” Tumblety had to consider his answer.

“The product of a sick mind of what is being considered in some circles as psychopathic behaviour.”

“Are you the man who calls himself Jack the Ripper?”

“No. Were you hoping I would break down and give you a confession?”

“Not necessarily but it’s worth a try. Some will confess.”

“Do you have any further
real
questions for me, Inspector?”

“Yes, just bear with us a moment.” Abberline turned to Godley to see him finish some writing. “Well done, George. Doctor would you just sign our contemporaneous record for us?” Tumblety looked at the desk and the statement sheets a little ruffled by the interview and replied.

“Yes, of course if it gets me out.”

“Don’t forget our colleague wishes to speak to you, but it should do.”

Godley passed across the papers to the edge of the desk nearest Tumblety who willing signed each of the five sheets put in front of him. As he signed the third he realised the consequences of his actions and paused half way through.

“What’s the matter then, Doctor?” asked Abberline with knowing victory in his voice. Tumblety didn’t look up but continued, it was too late.

“Nothing, Inspector. Just had a flash in my mind of things to do tomorrow.” He finished signing the papers and sat back in his chair looking at the partially smiling Abberline with contempt.

“Right, me and George will leave you to DS Thick. Thank you, Doctor. Goodnight.” The two of them left the room closing the door behind them, Abberline deliberately containing his glee until the two of them were alone back in the incident room.

“All right, Bill, he’s all yours now,” said Abberline.

“Thanks, Guv. I’ll let you know when we’re done with him. You happy to let me bail him?”

“Yes, provided he puts up surety. If not I want him remanded. He is our best line so far.” Abberline and Godley went back to their office leaving Thick to interview Townsend over his complaint.

Back in the incident room Abberline pulled out a drawer in his desk and grabbed a bottle of malt whiskey from it.

“George, I know you don’t approved but indulge me this once. We have a major break-through.”

“All right, Fred, granted. It’s his writing isn’t it?”

“You’ll have my job yet. He realised when it was too late that we have his hand writing. We need it analysed as soon as, so first thing send someone off with it to The Yard to Anderson’s office to get approval from him for it’s comparison to the ‘Dear Boss’ and ‘from Hell’ letters. He may have just signed his own execution order, my friend.” He poured large tumblers of drink for them both and continued. “Keep this bit low key. Don’t want any undue fuss early on.”

“Fine. This,” said Godley indicating to the glasses “is a rare treat I hope you realise?”

“I do,
Dad
, I do,” replied Abberline sarcastically. They chinked their glasses together and laughed for the first time in weeks.

***

Wednesday 7
th
November. With the late night from interviewing the man they knew as Townsend, Abberline and Godley didn’t arrive back at work until midday. Walking into their office Bill Thick was there to meet them; he didn’t look good. He was asleep slumped over a desk head in his arms folded on the table looking as if he had not been home. Abberline approached him and gently rocked him by the right shoulder an action which caused him to slowly wake up.

“Oh fuck me, Guv’nor, am I pleased to see you,” said an obviously drained Thick. “Been here all night with that fucker in the end.”

“Did he not make the surety then?” asked Godley.

“No, didn’t get that far. After a persistent argument about addresses and absolute denials to being involved in the assaults, turns out he lied about his name. He’s called Francis Tumblety, still an American doctor but he came clean as that was the name I was given and he claims the whole thing is a falsehood to tarnish his name.”

“Bloody hell. Bit of a story then. Is he still in his cell then?” asked Abberline.

“Yeah. He’s been charged over some of the assaults but we kept him here for you to talk to him again and to wait for daytime to secure the surety money. The bank was due to answer at anytime.”

“Which bank?” asked Godley.

“Cootes. Says he’s got deposits and a credit facility with them.”

Abberline looked through the spy hole and seeing that this Dr Tumblety was lying on his bed he signalled to the custody sergeant to open the cell door and he went in. Tumblety sat up to face him.

“So, Dr Tumblety, tell me why we shouldn’t put you on remand right now? Tell me why you should be granted any sort of bail then. You lied to me last night,” said Abberline coldly.

“The only thing that wasn’t true was my name. The rest was right. I should be granted bail because I can afford it, Inspector.”

“Right £1500. Can you afford that then?”

“Yes, just send a messenger to Cootes and they will give you the letter of surety.”

“Right, you stay in here until we have that letter. Once it’s here then we expect you back in nine days to answer enquiries on my investigation and one more issue on Detective Sergeant Thick’s case too. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“What’s you’re address then?”

“17 Graham Road, Hackney,” said Tumblety knowing he would have to look for somewhere else or be ready to move immediately.

“You don’t turn up when you are expected then I will personally put your door in.” With that Abberline left slamming the door behind him. By 3.p.m Tumblety had lawfully left the police station. Exhausted from a sleepless night, he caught a cab to Graham Road and slept through to Friday morning.

Late that afternoon Abberline and Godley had heard from the main C.I.D office at Scotland Yard that it would take up to ten days for the handwriting to be analysed and inference of guilt satisfied.

“Why the hell does it take so long, George?” asked a frustrated Abberline.

“Because the Mets’ one and only expert in a line that rarely has to be pursued is on holiday in France and doesn’t get back until the 19
th
,” replied an equally irritated Godley, both men desperate not to let a good suspect slip through their fingers. They could take comfort in the fact that he would now know that he was an obvious suspect and if it was him he would think heavily as to whether he would strike on bail. However, another dramatic twist was about to influence the direction of the investigation yet again.

Robert Lees had not slept from about 3.a.m until day break as a result of the most startling clear vision he had ever had. Having experienced no sleep, subsequently he had meticulously written down a record of what he had seen in his most vivid vision of the next potential or actual Ripper crime. Despite reservations of hostility from Abberline he knew he had to see him to allow his conscience at least to be at rest if nothing else. He knew it would be sometime before the horrors of the murder he had psychologically witnessed would fade. He arrived at Commercial Street Police Station at 5.p.m by stylish carriage which waited for him outside while he went in to conduct his traumatic business. He spoke to the front desk sergeant who sent off a constable to fetch Abberline, a routine he was now accustomed to. Within minutes he was guided by Godley to the incident room where he was invited to sit by Abberline.

“Mr Lees, without wishing to sound cynical or ungrateful, I do hope you have some new information from your visions for us,” said Abberline.

“Inspector, I spent the night awake from 3.a.m until dawn as a result of what I witnessed in my last vision. A crime so horrible is imminent that it will shock the core of society and the police service and will scar the memories of all who witness it. I will not be wasting your time.”

“Mr Lees, most importantly can you tell me when and where it will happen?” asked Abberline keen to cut to the chase.

“Mr Abberline, my visions as I have said are mainly and mostly entirely symbolic, but…” Abberline cut in with impatience and irritation.

“We have just made a significant break through potentially, Mr Lees, now get on with it and tell me something I need to know!”

“Damn your godless impatience, Abberline! Listen! There must be something from what I am about to tell you that will help you catch him. In the next week a woman not from this country will be the next victim. She will die alone in her own home as a result of a crime fuelled by greed. The killer will be a foreign man dressed smartly with knowledge of what he is doing, with dark evil eyes set behind a face covered by a moustache. They will meet in a building that is named after a figure head of sorts. When she is found she will be unrecognisable.”

“Fred, The Britannia. Tumblety matches the description and all we need to do is watch any girls in there that maybe from abroad,” said Godley interpreting the vision instantly. Abberline was still cynical.

“Right. You tell no one of this, Lees. There must be no chance of the man being tipped off. Do you understand?”

“I do, Inspector. Tell me when this over and I am proved right, any chance of a simple apology or a thank you?” Abberline ignored him totally.

“Show him out, George.”

“May God be your judge, Abberline, you are the most soulless man I have ever met.”

“Get out. Yes, your visions are accurate and they tell us much but this is the first time they have given us anything close to a clue before the crime. Problem is Whitechapel is full of foreign men and women, some are smartly dressed, many of both have moustaches and we won’t be able to follow everyone to their homes, so don’t flatter yourself that you think you might of solved these crimes, if you do, then truly you might be considered a fool and a lunatic. But thank you, don’t come back unless you are asked.” Lees stormed out too humiliated to reply with Godley looking a little stunned by the outbursts from both.

“George, don’t get me wrong, it all helps but consider the logistics of what I have just described.”

“But we’ve got to try, Fred.”

“I know. I fucking know more than anyone. Big briefing tomorrow at six, two and ten and get Mather and Robinson on watch for Tumblety.”

The worst fact for the two of them was that it was now imminent a murder was coming, there was no doubt of that based on Lees’ previous information and that’s what hurt and troubled them most, knowing it was coming.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
 

Thursday 8
th
November 2.p.m. For the second time that day Abberline had given the following briefing to all patrols.

“No one takes time off during the next week and everyone will be paid to do an extra four hours after their normal shift. We are looking for a foreign man with a dark appearance, deep set ‘evil’ eyes and a moustache. He may well be smartly dressed and could be a medical practitioner. Our man Tumblety is already under observation so pay attention to others. He may well, from information provided by Mr Lees, pick someone up in The Britannia and go home with them. Potential victims to be looked at are also of foreign origin with somewhere of their own to go to so there could be a lot of following people off at a discreet distance. Everyone has got to be vigilant because the one thing that is certain is that he will strike. We need to stop or catch him and hopefully both. No questions? Then get out there and find him. I will be out too in-between the briefings.” The parade room emptied of all it’s occupants who filed out of the police station to hopefully bring about an end to these crimes.

Severin Klosowski was keen to have the money to pay the new world a visit and be able to return if he didn’t like it. The task that he had been requested to do by the odd fellow Townsend fuelled his sense of opportunity. If this man had offered him £500 to kill a woman then she must be in possession of more money driving him to act alone and not bother to contact Townsend further. He pondered these issues as he cropped his hair and moustache to venture out to The Ten Bells that night. The newspapers had been full of information about descriptions of the Ripper and the sporting of a moustache seemed a key element, so keeping it short cropped might allow him to go un-noticed. He wished to pass unobtrusively and changing his appearance should help. He would dress in very average clothes for the area again to be unexceptional. He recalled the picture of Mary Kelly in his minds eye as he contemplated his task for the evening. He had seen her about as he had told Townsend and she was indeed unusually attractive for the normal unfortunates of Whitechapel. He would take delight in her form before killing her. His shop was closed for the day so that he could get into Commercial Street at the earliest opportunity.