Whitechapel (56 page)

The fast moving and callous Klosowski grabbed the back of his shirt collar as he attempted to open the door and pulled him down to the floor. The terrified fat man looked up shaking in absolute fear and then wet himself.

“No don’t please. I’ll say nothing. Please, please, no!”

The cutthroat first struck diagonally across his face from the left side of the fat man’s forehead down to just below his nose. It opened up his face deeply, split his left eyeball and slashed the bridge of his nose down to the cartilage. He screamed incessantly for just a few seconds as this first wound was inflicted but it was cut short as his throat was cut in the same way as Blakey’s. He stayed silently on the floor his body shaking in erratic spasms as death took hold and within half a minute was limp lying in an expanding pool of blood, overlapping and mixing with that of the old and now lifeless prostrate barber.

Klosowski was then startled to hit the floor facedown as he was struck from behind. ‘Who the hell was that?’ Was his first thought as he was taken totally by surprise. But then he recognised the hissing voice in his ear and became aware of the police truncheon as it missed his head as he and his assailant clattered to the floor.

“You fucker! I’ll have you!” said Rowntree in a pained low voice drawing his truncheon back to have another go at Klosowski. The Pole, who had been pinned down by Rowntree, rolled to his left as hard and quickly as he could managing to partially free himself from the policeman’s weight. It gave him a free left arm too. The truncheon came down towards him again but he blocked the strike with his left forearm striking the policeman’s right wrist. Looking up at the policeman who was now kneeling over him, he could see the top of the scissors handle sticking out of the back of his neck. He was stunned this man had recovered so soon as he had hoped to have punctured his brachial nerve. Rowntree then delivered a punch with his left hand taking Klosowski completely off guard as it connected with right side of his jaw. It hurt and for a couple of seconds his vision blurred but not so much as he didn’t see the truncheon again coming down at him until it was about to strike. He moved his head to one side and the wooden weapon struck hard against the stone floor. So hard that it shattered, leaving only a stump in Rowntree’s hand. He stared at it in disbelief; the moment’s inattention was enough for Klosowski to throw him off. He landed heavily on the floor on his back which winded him. The Pole was up briskly to his feet and as Rowntree looked up he had grabbed a broom and struck the policeman around the head with the brush end. As were all Victorian brooms, its head was made of a heavy piece of wood with a wad of coarse bristles attached. It connected harshly and with force to the left side of Rowntree’s head knocking him backwards and to the floor.

Looking to his right he saw an iron bucket only a few feet from him. He sat up and reached across for it then sprang to his feet. The adrenaline surging through his system had dulled the pain of the scissors buried in his back and as the broom was swung at him again he countered it with the bucket. The broom head caught in the buckets handle and mouth and Rowntree pulled it from Klosowski’s grasp. For a moment the Pole stood confused and motionless. Rowntree took advantage of this moving forward quickly and swinging at him with the iron bucket. It hit him in the chest as he tried to take avoiding action. The Pole kicked out striking the policeman’s right shin hard which put him to the floor in pain.

Klosowski moved forward and kicked him squarely in the jaw sending him backwards unconscious. He stood motionless surveying the carnage within the shop and then noticed he was heavily stained with blood. Quickly, he moved to the door and locked it and turned round the status sign from open to closed. He grabbed the cord for both the door rolling blind and the window blind and yanked them down to ensure no one passing could see what had happened. He blocked the door further with one of the chairs and then made for the back of the shop.

Lucy Baderski was upstairs and he knew time was of the essence. They had to escape. He washed his face and took off all of his soiled clothing before he went up to see her so as to keep her suspicion to a minimum.

“We’re leaving now. Pack your things.” He tried to sound nonchalant in his demand.

“Why? Where are we going?” Was Lucy’s reply not unsurprisingly at this sudden demand as he had appeared upstairs. He went up to her grabbing her by the throat and pulling her close to his face and scowled.

“I am your husband and your meal ticket. Do what the hell I say or I shall cast you into the streets. Pack the minimum you need for us to go away. You have five minutes.” She was choking as he spoke and tried to release his grip but without success. She fought for breath and tried pointlessly to speak as he grasped her for several seconds once he had finished speaking. He then flung her away and she landed on the floor clasping her throat and fighting to regain her breath; she looked up hatefully at him but knew this vile and cruel man still, at that moment, had a hold over her. She got up turning her back on him not wanting him to see her eyes welling up with tears of fear and left the room to follow his demand.

In reality she possessed little so to pack the essentials in a few minutes was not a difficult task. Klosowski was soon in the room with her packing his own belongings hurriedly in preparation for what to her was going to be an imminent departure. He put on his suit as he got to it. She had wondered why he had come up having discarded his working clothes.

“What has happened, Severin? Why are we going now?”

“Shut up and do as I say. I will tell you when we are far from here.”

The rooms above the shop were bland and austere and not at all homely. They had no furniture of their own to be discarding so clothing was virtually all they owned. A fire was burning in the main living room so Lucy felt the cold as they retreated to the unheated cold bedroom with its battered wardrobe and chest of drawers. Emptying her clothing into the old case didn’t take long.

“We have some food left in the pantry as I only bought us some yesterday. Should I take that with us?” Klosowski thought for a moment. It would save them stopping too soon to eat if they felt hungry.

“Yes, put it in a muslin sack, but only what we can eat without preparation. We’ll be getting a bus and then a train I think. I need, err… want to leave London. There is no future for me here.”

He knew he was certainly right in that assumption. Having killed further the only future he faced was that at the end of a rope. He pulled up the mattress and grabbed a leather satchel from under it. It contained his savings, a not inconsiderable amount of cash, and it would be essential to get away.

“Are you done?” He menacingly demanded of Lucy. She was clutching the muslin sack now containing some bread, cheese and ham.

“Yes,” she said with dry eyes and ready to pick up her case.

“Good. We must go.”

He grabbed her case and ushered her with a nod of his head out of the door.

“Do not go through the shop. Leave via the back gate. We will go straight into West Green Road from there and down to the High Street to catch a bus to the railway station.” She knew that it was pointless to ask any question as to why so ruefully nodded her head in recognition of the instructions.

Within ten minutes they were on an omnibus and heading off, little did Lucy know, as fugitives. As he sat down a cold chill hit him as he realised the huge and potentially fatal mistake he had made. The policeman was probably still alive and the only living witness to attacks in the barbers shop, the only witness to any of his atrocities. He was a professional and word would be around the authorities fast; word of his description but also his name and his nationality. He knew they needed to be out of not only London but also England within the next twenty-four hours before his details were posted at all ports. He remained deep in thought as the horse drawn bus passed rhythmically over the cobbled Tottenham streets.

***

Friday 30
th
November 9.a.m; Robert Ford was lying in his bed still recovering some two days after the fight of his life when he heard a heavy knocking on his lodgings door.

“Rob, you in there, lad?” called Abberline. Then the door opened and Abberline and Godley strolled in. When at home Robert rarely kept the door locked. “How are you then, boy?” brashly asked Abberline.

“All right now, Guv, thanks to the local Stepney boys. They got me stripped off and into one of their cells wrapped in blankets. Took me a good few hours to warm up but then I was all right. I told Inspector Chandler what happened. S’pose he told you too?” Abberline gave a knowing glance at Godley and nodded.

“Yes. He did and I’m sorry you took the brunt of it again. Do you know what happened to the box?”

“I can only guess. Sorry, sir.”

“The whole bloody lot pulped. Nothing recoverable at all. Well, as you can imagine our hand has been completely forced where Tumblety is concerned. We have no evidence and no case. The lads are pursuing this Chapman bloke now. He might help us further of course. Want anything here?”

“No thanks, Guv, I’ll be back in tomorrow.”

“Good, lad. I need you.” Abberline nodded at Godley and they had left no sooner than they had arrived it seemed.

Feeling a little lost, Robert decided to have a sort through in his room, something he had not had the chance to do properly for weeks. He persistently had been throwing discarded clothes into the base of the wardrobe an area which had been obscured by several hanging garments so he had not seen the very bottom for some time. The doors were only pushed to and not properly shut; they couldn’t be because of the pile of clothing obstructing the doors from closing. ‘Bloody hell’ he thought as he pulled the doors apart and the pile spilled out on the floor. It included uniform, police shirts as well as some worn casual clothes of his own, all of which appeared to need laundering. He bent down and pulled them all out and now low down he could see virtually to the rear of the wardrobe, but not quite with the poor lighting and shadow cast by the hanging garments. He leaned in with his right arm to sweep for odd socks or anything that may be left and was surprised to feel something paper which felt quite thick to touch.

He took hold of it and pulled it out and found it to be a thickly stuffed white envelope. He had never seen it before and was suspicious of its contents; he reached in and could feel it was further paper items and pulled out to his amazement a thick wad of bank notes in large denominations. At the top of the pile were the beginnings of a hand written note. It must have been penned by Mary by its opening sentiment, the writing was poor and quite uneducated but he treasured the few words upon it as they were the last communication from her.

Deer Robert,

Pleese find here mony that will be for us

When we move from london. When we

Next meat face to face I will tell you where

It is form but leave this note so you know it

is for Us. I look forward to

And the note ended. It appeared that she may have run out of ink as the last word seemed to fade out. Robert on his knees initially collapsed back onto the floor in a seated position as one hand held the letter while the other one came to grip his forehead in total disbelief. Where had the money come from? What it was for seemed more than obvious, but how had Mary obtained just short of £3000 seemingly from no where. His hand ran from his forehead through his hair, his fingernails brushing his scalp at the rear of his head as he fell into deep thought. He rubbed his unshaven face as he considered how he could use the money to perhaps avenge her death; the only thing he knew for certain was that it would help secure his own immediate future if he needed it to. He placed the money back in the envelope which he then put in an old beaten up leather satchel bag he had and put it back in the base of the wardrobe. He mind numbingly carried on sorting out his clothing as he thought about the money and its origins.

***

Abberline and Godley went directly to the Whitechapel post office for a fresh message to be sent to the New York Police Department via telex regarding the Tumblety investigation, and away from the prying eyes in Scotland Yard. If caught, they were both acutely aware that their careers would be hanging by a thread.

“Well you know what the definition of a career is, Fred?” joked Godley on the way, “A head long rush down hill, mate!”

Abberline needed to inform Thomas Byrnes of a particular passenger to check when La Bretagne arrived as a result of the events of the night of the Kelly murder. Tumblety had of course been taken into custody over the false allegations of indecent assaults and had foolishly given the name Frank Townsend when first interviewed; the name that Abberline had found on the receipt for the Atlantic crossing. The Transatlantic Line had not yet provided a passenger manifest to Abberline and in the wake of the events regarding the Tumblety investigation he could not really pursue it further, but he at least knew the names that his American counterparts should look for. He would have to word his message carefully so as not to arouse too much suspicion in Thomas Byrnes when requiring that he replies only be to himself personally via the post office. Before going to the telegram operator he worded the message methodically with Godley reading over its contents.

Chief Inspector Byrnes,

Be advised of the possible presence of a Frank Townsend arriving with the Transatlantic Line on Sunday. If he is on board he is a key suspect in the Whitechapel murders and must be traced for questioning. Please ascertain if he is present, which I am sure he is, as any address he ventures to is crucial pending the arrival of Scotland Yard detectives. Please reply to me via this postal address, Scotland Yard too busy to give me prompt service. Townsend/Tumblety are one and the same.