Whitechapel (52 page)

“Remarkably few rats. The beer is crap as a matter of fact.” Tumblety couldn’t believe his luck; this man was a fellow American.

“Frank Townsend, doctor,” said Tumblety extending his right hand to make an introductory handshake. The man from steerage looked down at it before raising his own to reciprocate the greeting.

“Bill Weston, carpenter and former Union soldier,” he replied sternly. He continued as they let go hands. “You don’t come down here to socialise, Mr Townsend, cut to the chase. What the hell do you want with me?” Tumblety looked him in the eye and then dropped his gaze down to the ground and thought heavily before conducting his answer.

“All right, Mr Weston, I will. I have a business proposition for you which will simply mean you have the chance to live comfortably on the rest of this crossing, and then for a few months on arriving in New York.”

Weston was immediately suspicious, but also virtually penniless and was intrigued by the chance of some comfortable living. This curiosity stemmed from that most natural human weakness – greed. He squinted at the American doctor and sipped some more beer having to wipe froth from his moustache. He then spoke again in response.

“Carry on, but be truthful, I guess you have some trouble in your wake then, Dr Townsend.” Tumblety considerd his reply and spoke far from the truth.

“There are men following me and watching me from London, due to financial difficulties. Their feelings are unfounded and they mean just to intimidate me for a while, what I need is someone to act as me for a short period to let me get away when we dock. You’re a smart man; you know why I am asking you I’m sure.”

“All right, go on; are they liable to want to kill you, or me?”

“No. Just scare and intimidate to try to goad me to pay them off.”

“Is someone on the boat watching you now?”

“No, you are not under scrutiny until we dock, I want you to fill in for me for a couple of days before hand so you get used to the idea.”

“How much then, Dr Townsend? And how long do I masquerade as you in New York?” Weston was intrigued and in need of money.

“$1000. I have an address for you to use for a month when you arrive, then you can just disappear.” Tumblety felt his offer generous.

“No. $1500, you pay my expenses on the boat for whatever I want, some of your wardrobe and I take over as you tomorrow.” Tumblety was not in a strong position to negotiate, but he tried.

“$1400. You can take over as me as you ask, but must be confined to your cabin complaining of sea sickness and pay for your own indulgences.” There was an uncomfortable silence between them.

“$1500 and I’ll pay my expenses.” Weston would not be swayed.

“Deal. I will bring you a suit tomorrow and you will groom yourself down here before going to first class. I will leave a second suit for you upstairs, the cash in an envelope on the bedside table and the details of accommodation in East Tenth Street for you to use. There’s no rent to pay on it. Just live there for a month and then disappear in the night in your work wear.” They shook hands to close the deal.

“You have a deal then, Dr Townsend. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“We will never meet again after that, Mr Weston. Enjoy your new life for a short period then.”

***

During the morning of the 26
th
Abberline had received the telegram from Andrews in France informing him of Tumblety’s evasion and sailing for New York. Although not pleased at this development he at least knew that, unlike the loss of their subject in Hackney, this time they were certain of where he would end up and the local police could therefore be asked to begin surveillance on him until Scotland Yard detectives could be despatched. He discovered that morning from the American embassy that the head of the New York Police Department was Chief Inspector Thomas Byrne, and as soon as Godley had passed this name to him Abberline went straight to The Yard’s telex room by carriage from The Street to personally ensure the communication was sent. Godley accompanied him while the other detectives on the case were still collating and going out to obtain more witness statements. Separating the useful from the fanciful as Abberline had directed was a difficult task. By this the detective inspector implied that those that were unreliable as a result as being those of attention seekers, drunks or inveterate liars should be disregarded, but not destroyed. Many statements, some taken by Abberline himself would prove invaluable and formulate much of the Ripper legend, especially that of George Hutchinson regarding the last sighting of Mary Kelly. Robert Ford found this statement in his hands as Godley and Abberline left for the telex room. He began to read it slowly to take in its content. It had been taken at 6.p.m on the 12
th
November after Mary’s inquest:

‘About 2.a.m on the 9
th
I was coming by Thrawl Street, Commercial Street, and just before I got to Flower and Dean Street, I met the murdered woman Kelly, and she said to me Hutchinson will you lend me sixpence. I said I can’t I have spent all my money going down to Romford, she said good morning I must go and find some money. She went away toward Thrawl Street. A man coming in the opposite direction to Kelly, tapped her on the shoulder and said something and they both burst out laughing. I heard her say alright to him, and the man said you will be alright, for what I have told you: he then placed his right hand around her shoulders. He also had a kind of small parcel in his left hand, with a kind of strap round it. I stood against the lamp of the Queen’s Head Public House, and watched him. They both then came past me and the man hung his head down, with, his hat over his eyes. I stooped down and looked him in the face. He looked at me stern. They both went into Dorset Street. I followed them. They both stood at the corner of the court for about three minutes. He said something to her. She said alright my dear come along you will be comfortable. He then placed his arm on her shoulder and she gave him a kiss. She said she had lost her handkerchief. He then pulled his handkerchief a red one and gave it to her. They both went up the Court together. I then went to the court to see if I could see them but I could not. I stood there for about three-quarters of an hour to see if they came out. They did not so I went away.’

Ford dropped the statement onto the desk having finished the last word and stared blankly into space with many unanswerable questions spinning in his mind. The conversations Hutchinson talked of made no sense as they were all half recorded. So what was she trying to achieve? Was she drunk and unaware of her actions? Had she drifted back to prostitution that night? Had she decided to turn her back on him? He knew that he would never get an answer to these enigmatic questions.

Abberline and Godley arrived at The Yard at around 11.a.m and made their way straight to the second floor telex room. The corridors and offices of The Yard were filled with uniformed and suited policemen going about they work on a busy Monday morning catching up on their many and varied investigations following the weekend lull of staff at The Yard.

The telex room was staffed by an inspector in overall charge, two roving sergeants and half a dozen constables all sat at their telex units with their headphones on all focused on sending and receiving messages mainly around the U.K, some to Europe but not normally any to the United States. Abberline on entering was met by the Inspector Thomas Willis who recognised the famed detective and availed himself immediately.

“Mr Abberline, what can we do for you?”

“Inspector, I need to send a telegram urgently to the NYPD. Can you free up one of your blokes now so I can get it done?” said Abberline.

“Certainly, this way,” Willis led the two detectives to one of the terminals operated by a portly middle aged constable with a large handlebar moustache. “Smiffy, finish what you are on and then do whatever Mr Abberline requests please.”

“Thank you, Mr Willis, much appreciated,” said Godley as the inspector wandered back to his desk.

Smiffy after just a few seconds looked up at Abberline and nodded his head in readiness to go with fingers poised at the keyboard. Abberline opened up a sheet of paper and began to speak with Smiffy typing.

FAO Chief Inspector Thomas Byrne. URGENT From Inspector Frederick Abberline, Chief Investigating Detective Whitechapel Murders.

Requiring interception and surveillance until Yard detectives arrive: Doctor Francis Tumblety. Already of note in USA, expected to arrive from Le Havre aboard La Bretagne on Sunday 2
nd
December. Seen leaving France by detectives, most likely travelling first class. Smartly dressed, around 50 years old, 5’11” outlandish moustache and military dress quite frequently or at least very smart. Please reply once picked up surveillance. Thank you for co-operation.

Smiffy finished typing and spoke “Anything else, sir?”

“No thank you, Smiffy, thanks for that. Let us know over at The Street when you have a reply.”

Abberline thanked Inspector Willis and they left the room and returned back into the busy corridor. Word of their presence had obviously spread around The Yard as Superintendent Arnold was waiting for them outside. He spoke to the detectives stopping them in their tracks in the corridor.

“Frederick, I need to see you and you alone in my office please.” Godley and Abberline exchanged glances before Abberline replied.

“All right, sir. George I’ll see you back at The Street.”

“Good choice, Inspector, you maybe sometime.” Both detectives looked further puzzled. Godley continued out of the building while Abberline followed Arnold to his third floor office. They entered and sat either side of Arnold’s desk. He pulled a drawer open and took out a bottle of scotch and two glass tumblers. Abberline knew that by this action something serious concerned Thomas Arnold. He had known him on and off over many years.

“Boss, not for me it’s too early in the day. Can you cut to the chase please,” said Abberline. Arnold poured a glass and had to take a large swig of the strong tasting bitter alcohol before he could begin. The taste made him contort his face as it burned its way down his gullet and sat warmly in what felt like the pit of his stomach.

“Fred, how long have we known each other?” Abberline began to feel very uneasy as a question with sincerity or nostalgia often disguised a killer blow and looked Arnold hard in the eyes before answering.

“Well, we were sergeants together seventeen years ago. Our paths have crossed on and off ever since. Why?”

“Brace yourself for what I am about to show you.” Arnold passed the Buckingham Palace letter across the desk to Abberline who studied it intently.

The Office of Her Majesty, Victoria R,

Buckingham Palace,

London,

SW1,

To all concern investigating the Whitechapel Murders,

I hereby give Royal decree that any line of enquiry regarding the above mentioned murders and the investigation of Dr F Tumblety be forthwith ceased. Any actions contrary to this Royal proclamation maybe considered Seditious and against national interests.

Victoria R.

Abberline sat in stunned silence reading it over several times. He got up and silently poured himself a large glass of scotch. Still without saying anything he walked over to the window in Arnold’s office and stared out blankly. The view was across the embankment towards the south side of Westminster Bridge. It seemed like an eternity to Arnold before he spoke.

“Tom, what the hell is going on? I’ve slaved my guts out over the last twelve weeks within a community that is living deeply in fear and is distrusting of the higher echelons of society, and I have had to do my utmost to down play their fears. Now this? Are they going to write a Royal pardon for George Chapman too?

“It’s not a pardon, Fred.”

“Might as fucking well be. I have damning evidence against him, he’s done a runner from the country and they are telling me to let him go. Do any of them know that he’s gone, eh?”

“Old friend, please don’t shoot the messenger. I…” Abberline interrupted.

“Listen. Enough of this shit let me tell you how it is, Tom. Both are as guilty as hell. My feeling is that Tumblety is responsible for most of it but for some reason Chapman killed the last one. Do they want me to fit one man up with them all, who I can’t find, or do they want the killer? I know where Tumblety is.”

“Fred I’ve shown you the official line. My job is done. It’s up to you what you do. If you continue it will be on the heads of you and your men.”

“This is establishment? Isn’t it? This is Catholic or Masonic. Tumblety is one or the other. Well justice comes to everyone religion, class or any other fucking divide aside. I’ll go underground with this if I have to.”

“Good luck to you, mate. I agree. Do what you have to for those women, but you will have to turn over all you’ve got to me. I’ll give you 24 hours to get it copied by photograph, facsimile or whatever.”

“Good. Thanks, Tom. I want justice. All those smug bastards have never had to see the horrors inflicted upon those women, the fear inflicted upon the community or the trauma on all those who pick up the pieces. I tell you now, the truth will prevail.” Abberline finished his impassioned response.

“Be careful, Fred. Tread very carefully.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
 

1.p.m on the 26
th
; Klosowski had found employment working for a gentleman’s barbers using his real name, rightly assuming there would be a search on for the former proprietor of ‘Chapman’s Barber Shop’. He maintained his trade albeit for someone else’s benefit whilst Lucy Baderski did casual work locally as a seamstress. The premises were in West Green Road, Tottenham and they lived there above the shop not unlike their circumstances in Cable Street previously thanks to rapport he had struck up with the owner when he ventured in for a job. He did his best to engage on a friendly basis with all of his new clientele as soon as he had begun work there to create a positive impression and keep any suspicion at bay. It was quite obvious to him that the residents here would be aware of the circumstances of the Whitechapel Murders and would have read about descriptions. He was acutely aware that the night he had taken Mary Kelly’s life so ultimately pointlessly, he had been seen with her in Commercial Street. This liaison must have been reported to the police and a description of him that night put forward. Little did he know the extent to which the police would be making their enquiries as a result of his abandoned premises. He decided to keep his moustache short and hair cropped following the move from Whitechapel in an attempt to avoid being associated with any of the descriptions of the murderer.