Whitechapel (55 page)

It was a difficult judgement call for him knowing the importance of the documents inside held the chance of conviction of the man directly or indirectly responsible for Mary’s murder. Dead, he could do nothing to seek justice for her at all. With that fact in mind he took a deep breath and forced himself under the water and swam as hard as he could below the murky black surface given that appearance in the moonlight. Two more shots came by him underwater, not terribly close, and bizarrely very silently. He knew he had to go as far as his lungs could carry him to get away from the danger of the gun toting stranger. Within seconds in the cold darkness of the water he felt as if he had travelled hundreds of feet and his lungs seemed to be straining; mainly an effect of the cold. He made in the direction of the north bank where at least he felt that at some distance he could surface fairly covertly and at least momentarily to catch his breath.

In the intervening seconds, the first thug with whom he had fought with his truncheon and felled surfaced in a dazed and spluttering condition. The gunman immediately shouted instructions to him.

“Grab that box before it goes completely under and empty it all into the canal.” The thug just stared back confused for a moment. “Now!” screamed the gunman. The thug looked around and saw the box beginning to disappear below the water; he grabbed it and up ended it and the contents came spilling out into the canal. The Victorian ink instantly began to run and blur and then paper began to pulp. No hard work was needed to destroy any of it including Tumblety’s hand signed statement, the most crucial piece of evidence against him. As the thug was doing this the gunman was loading new rounds into the drum of his revolver very casually. He clicked the drum back into the body of the gun as the thug looked up at him. As he did so the gunman aimed the revolver directly at him.

“Well done, you,” he said condescendingly to the thug as he then shot him three times in the chest.

Robert had surfaced thirty yards away in the darkness by the north bank and could not be seen but was able to observe the last seconds of his first assailant’s life. He clutched his chest and looked up in total disbelief and astonishment at the man who had shot him and then with a groan collapsed into the water. Robert looked on in horror at two bodies now floating in the canal shot by this familiar masked man. The gunman walked casually along the canal bank observing the hundreds of decaying sheets of paper and then turned on his heels and walked along one of the alleyways back, Robert assumed, to the cab.

In fear of being shot Robert stayed silently where he was; cold now hit his body with chilling aggression. To this point he had been physically and mentally engaged in the canal and past the initial shock of the cold water as he entered it and had not had time to realise he was beginning to get dangerously cold. The sensation of coldness now hit him fiercely and he had to get himself out of the water as he could feel himself shivering with an intensity he had never experienced before. He was delaying getting out initially for concern over the masked gunman coming back maybe having only disappeared into the shadows to encourage him to come out. This man probably did not make an assumption that Robert might be dead from the shooting and had not surfaced.

He forced himself to wait for what he thought was a couple of minutes. He had no way to tell what time had elapsed as his watch had stopped as a result of being in the water. Feeling mostly confident the gunman had gone and in fear of passing out and drowning he began to pull himself out by the north canal bank; as he did so he heard the crack of a riding crop and a cab or carriage pull off on the cobbles. From what his hearing allowed him to determine in the awkward wharf side acoustics the cab’s sound was from the south side somewhere gradually fading away. He lay out shivering on the canal bank for a minute or so before pulling out his police whistle and blowing as hard as he could until fatigue took him over and he began to pass out from the cold in his soaked condition.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
 

Wednesday 28
th
November 1888; aboard La Bretagne the exchange of identities was about to take place between Tumblety and Weston to throw any observers either on board or when they arrived in New York off the scent. Tumblety had packed a carpet bag of his most vital belongings and now found himself back in steerage confronting Weston in his meagre accommodation. Weston’s cabin was located inside of La Bretagne and sounded as if it neighboured the engine room as Tumblety entered and was hit by the austerity of his new surroundings. It contained a simple iron bed, a chest of drawers and a wash bowl on a table in a corner, below which was a chamber pot. It was somewhat less grand than what he was used to. His facial expression obviously displayed the sense of dismay he felt and Weston read it well.

“Well, Doctor. Better get used to it. You’ve only got a short cruise with the rats though,” said Weston looking Tumblety up and down. He liked the look of the suit the American was wearing that he was about to take possession of.

“Yes, I’m sure I will. Shall we get changed then?”

Both men began to take off their outer clothes and placed them in separate piles on the bed ready to exchange, each eyeing the others garments as they did so but with completely different emotions. Tumblety reminded himself this temporary down classing was a necessary evil to ensure his survival. He knew that capture and return to London would mean the gallows if his Masonic ploy had failed so the discomfort and lack of privacy of steerage was a worthy sacrifice. Weston eagerly pulled on Tumblety’s suit trousers, and then grabbed the shirt clumsily fastening the buttons. He had given himself a good wash and picked up his new dapper expensive shoes and overbalanced as he pulled on the first, falling onto the bed and looking up embarrassed.

“Hey, fella, don’t rush so much, you’ll have plenty of time to enjoy first class over the next two days,” said Tumblety casually as he more slowly and almost with disdain dressed himself in Weston’s very proletariat clothing. Weston picked up the neck tie having pulled on both shoes.

“Before you put that on get some of this inside your shirt, just so you smell a little more first class.” Tumblety offered him a bottle of cologne. Weston looked at him with an air of offence. “Look, if you’re going to pass as me you have to smell like me. The people bringing me cabin service are used to it.” Weston took the bottle and eyed it with annoyance but quickly considered the American’s point valid. He loosened the upper buttons of the shirt and sprayed a generous amount around his neck and upper chest.

“Well done, you’ll grow to like it,” said Tumblety. Weston could sense some condescension in his voice but chose to ignore it when he considered what he was going to make out of their agreement.

Tumblety fitted very naturally into his new working class role having learnt during his many travels and especially around Whitechapel to be able take on many personas. He looked Weston up and down and felt he couldn’t necessarily say the same for him. He looked a little uncomfortable in his new finery and would need a few tips for his public appearances.

“Mr Weston, you look good, but relax a little. Make sure your cuffs are pulled down below your jacket sleeves, don’t wear your trousers so high and just hold yourself a little more upright. Do those and you’ll carry it off. Just try to speak politely but a little low, even hoarsely so you make an excuse about your throat to not arouse cabin service staff’s suspicion.”

Weston had to admit it was all good advice and nodded his head acceptingly. “Yes, Doctor you are quite right.” Tumblety offered Weston his hand.

“Well, Mr Weston, good luck and enjoy your brief foray into the upper echelons. Remember allow a little time at the lodgings in New York before moving on. Enjoy, and thank you for this great personal service.”

They shook hands firmly making positive eye contact as they did so.

“Whatever you’ve done, Doctor, good luck.”

Weston turned and made off finding the stairs to take him to the upper decks; without hesitation he placed a foot on the first step, briefly looked round back to steerage without making any eye contact with Tumblety. He looked gleeful to be leaving it all behind and then turned carrying on up and out into fresher air. Tumblety was left surveying his austere surroundings and the meagre possessions he temporarily now carried, most important of all being the jewellery case. In his potentially more volatile and less secure accommodation he sat and unpacked the contents and laid them on the bed. From his carpet bag he removed a leather money belt and began unbuttoning his shirt and then pulled it from his shoulders. He carefully placed the various precious stones into the leather belt ensuring that they were turned to avoid getting the sharp edges digging into his abdomen as he had several days of keeping them concealed. He repacked the empty jewellery case into the bottom of his carpet bag and packed some of the retched clothes left by the man with whom he had swapped identities on top to avoid even the case, although devoid of treasure, being seen.

***

Thursday 29
th
November 10.a.m. Constable Philip Rowntree walked his usual beat along West Green Road in Tottenham passing the many shop keepers he knew giving each other a polite ‘hello’ eventually reaching the ‘Tottenham Barbers Shop’ owned by William Blake, a distinctive corner premises. He looked in and saw that the shop was quiet with just one person in a chair and no other men waiting for the barber’s services. His vision fell to his reflection in the window and he could see that his mutton chop moustache and his hair could do with a little bit of tidying up. He walked by the barber’s distinctive red and white horizontally striped rotating pole and opened the door setting off the hanging door bell to alert the staff. Bill Blake who was cutting the hair of the seated, overweight client looked round recognising Phil Rowntree straight away and smiled.

“Phil the filth! How are you, mate! Not come in for me new bloke have you?” He said jovially. The ears of the ‘new bloke’ pricked up who was waiting for work reading a newspaper at the rear of the shop. By the comment he realised a policeman must have entered and he felt uncomfortable with the visit so soon. But Klosowski realised that with the words his new employer had spoken he would have to front the visit out.

“Not unless he’s bleedin’ Jack the Ripper, Blakey. I’ve come in for one of your Sweeny Todd specials, you bugger!” he said taking off his helmet and placing it under his arm. The only person who saw the irony in the remark was the man now emerging from the rear of the shop. Rowntree looked him up and down as he walked cautiously, it seemed, towards him with his head slightly bowed and piercing eyes looking up from a furrowed brow. This man fired his ‘policing sixth sense’ into action as he looked like a man with a dubious past who didn’t relish the company of the police. He spoke to Rowntree with a foreign accent.

“Morning, Constable, what can I do for you?” he was drying his hands on a clean white towel as he spoke.

“Quick trim please, Mister….?”

“Klosowski. Severin Klosowski.” He spoke uncomfortably.

“Right. I’ll sit here,” Rowntree said as he got into the other barbers chair in the shop. Klosowski then put a barber’s apron over his chest and shoulders tying it behind his neck as was standard to avoid soiling his clothes with cut hair. There was silence for half a minute or so until Blakey renewed conversation in the shop.

“So who they looking for then, Phil, in this Ripper case?” Rowntree could see in the mirror before him the foreign barber begin to work on his hair and felt distinctly nervous being asked this question with this man close to him with sharp objects in his hands. He considered his words carefully.

“Well, as far as I know they’re looking for a, er…… fellow from overseas, dark, average height maybe. Good with a knife. Bit of anatomical knowledge.”

“Sounds like fucking you, Sev!” replied Blakey laughing as he spoke and causing his client to laugh but no one else. Rowntree made eye contact with Klosowski in the mirror. He looked furtive and not keen to engage in any conversation himself. Rowntree was compelled to force him to speak to get some sort of background from him. He suspected whatever he said would have to be what he had already told Blakey.

“So, Sev, where you from then?” There was a pause before he answered.

“I come from Poland.” He wouldn’t expand.

“Nice. What brought you here then?”

“Work.”

“Barber there as well then?”

“Yes.” This was very much like conducting an interview with a criminal suspect. But he was dangerously hooked by the intrigue of who this man was.

“So, did you come straight here from Poland? Have you worked elsewhere in London? Married perhaps?” There was a pause.

“Look, Constable, I work. I don’t like to talk. You suspect me of something, eh?” Rowntree was confused by the response. Was this man actually a potential suspect and being difficult, or was he an innocent and protesting his innocence and dislike of being treated as a potential criminal.

“All right, mate. Sorry. I’m a local bobby and I like to get to know people. Shan’t ask you anything else then, fellow. But if you can’t be civil don’t expect me to be either.” Silence then descended again over the barbers shop.

This lasted for several minutes. Blakey was about to try to lighten the atmosphere when the carnage began. Having continued cutting Rowntree’s hair silently Klosowski then acted swiftly and in a deadly manner. He lifted his right hand clasping the scissors quickly high above his shoulder and then plunged it down into the back of the constable’s neck. They sank deep into his trapezius up to the handle as Rowntree screamed out with the searing and blinding pain. He tried to clutch his wound but as he did so he was pushed by Klosowski out of his chair and landed on the floor in a limp heap.

The calculating Klosowski left him to writhe on the floor as he then approached the witnesses to the attack. From the front of his barber’s apron he pulled out his cut throat and folded out its blade then swiftly and silently swung out at Blakey with it as he turned to face his new employee. The cutthroat struck as Klosowski intended severing Blakey’s windpipe, jugular and carotid artery and he slumped to the floor unable to speak and without the strength or wherewithal to retaliate. Blood sprayed from the wound and stained the mirrors of the shop running slowly down to the counter below. The seated client in the meantime had jumped to his feet and was making for the door which for him unfortunately opened inwards, therefore slowing his potential escape.