Whitechapel (59 page)

He wandered blindly and carelessly across the Embankment carriageway; fortunately the traffic was light and he had a near miss with only one hansom that was travelling east.

“You drunken wanker!” shouted it’s indignant driver as he swerved his horse and cab to miss him. Druitt was oblivious to the danger narrowly missed. He walked slowly and with uneven footing along the cobbled Villiers Street which led him to The Strand and the front of Charing Cross station. Reaching the main junction at the top he looked with glazing eyes to his left and the direction of Trafalgar Square. He could make out the spire of the Eleanor Cross outside of the station and recognised through his drunken state that he had got himself to his intended destination.

He walked across the forecourt at Charing Cross and made for one of the arched entrance ways over which hung the sign ‘entry and tickets’. As he passed through the arch he barged between a young courting couple making their way out not striking the young woman but heavily shoulder checking the smartly dressed young man and knocking him against the side wall.

“Oh, bloody hell, mind your step you drunken sot!” shouted the young man after him as Druitt staggered on ignoring the rant completely. The young man looked to his fiancée with disgust, brushed his clothes straight and they exited to the forecourt, muttering about incivility and the need for drunks to be taught manners. Druitt found his way to one of the ticket kiosks and with slurred speech, the cashier protected by a slatted grill; he bought a 2
nd
class return to Hammersmith. His intention was to take himself further west to jump into the Thames and end his tortured existence thus, he hoped, ensuring that his body would be found before being carried too far east and out to sea. His troubled mind at least rationalised that there was a chance his body would be found to be given a decent burial although unable to be buried in a churchyard due to suicide being the cause of death.

The cashier instructed him as to which platform to take to which Druitt responded without any gratitude wandering away from the window dropping change as he did so and leaving it rolling around the floor. He made his way to the platform and onto the waiting train, all the time with continued unsteadiness on his feet and dropped himself unceremoniously onto a seat knocking into a youth sitting by the window.

The train from Charing Cross was slow but not crowded being a Sunday and bizarrely he enjoyed the journey taking in sights of London that he had not seen before as the train crossed the Thames as soon as it left the station and followed a line for a time on the south bank. It didn’t take long to reach Hammersmith and he was the only one of the train’s few passengers to get off there. With little conscious thought he alighted from the train and wandered along the platform handing his ticket to the barrier attendant to be punched and oddly retrieving it from him; he was not intending to have need of it again. He stuffed it into his overcoat pocket and left the station.

He made his way to Furnival Gardens alongside of the River Thames just west of Hammersmith Bridge. There he walked amongst the ornamental flower beds to look for heavy border or rockery stones to help weigh him down. He enjoyed the fresh smell of the hardy annuals that were still present as he trod some of them down to collect several stones and place them in his overcoat and suit jacket pockets. He could feel the significant additional weight they provided and he knew that coupled with his enforced resistance to try to swim they would help speed his desire to sink effortlessly and soundlessly below the murky surface of the river. He left the riverside gardens and walked up to the start of the bridge joining it from Rutland Grove.

The wind felt cooler and fresher as he walked along the bridge approach over the bank side land below before actually reaching its span of the river. He pulled a second hip flask from a pocket in his suit and began to drain its contents as quickly as he could; the first had long since been finished and he had discarded it on the train shortly after having boarded. The lower temperature over the river as he made his final walk onto the bridge and heading south made him shiver and subconsciously pull his weighted overcoat round himself just a little tighter. He made his way to about half way across on the west side of the bridge all the time looking over the side watching the fast flowing Thames below with it’s strong under currents. It looked cold and dark as he walked and being a Sunday there was little river traffic apart from one or two pleasure craft meandering up and down stream. As the alcohol took effect and continued to dim his senses he very quickly became oblivious to the cold chilling breeze as he reached the half way point and paid no heed to the deserted footways of the bridge. He had never wanted an audience but had the bridge been populated at any level he had the inward resolve to go through with his intended course of action regardless.

He placed his hands around the circular iron tube that topped the metal balustrade running along the length of the bridge on both sides. It did feel exceptionally cold and it sent a renewed shiver down his spine. He gripped the tubing and looked down at the white knuckles of his hands as he increased the pressure of his grip upon it. He was getting ready to vault it now and allow himself to be sucked under in the cold dark muddy Thames water at the earliest opportunity. Suddenly he felt an epiphany; he visualised his family at his graduation, he recalled himself scoring his first six in colt’s cricket as a boy, he recalled his first day at grammar school with his mother straightening his tie as he got ready for the carriage to take him there, he recalled looking up from a soft warm bed into the eyes of his young mother. Then, nothing but cold and darkness.

Without conscious thought he had jumped; vaulting the balustrade and dropping the fifty-five feet from the bridge into the icy black waters of the River Thames. He felt the plunge and severe shock to his body as he entered the water and kept sinking within it silently deeper and ever deeper. The extra weights in his pocket were doing their trick. In a reflex action he breathed in and swallowed hard filling his lungs with the cold and mucky river water and chocking upon it. The ensuing panic his body experienced filled his lungs further and further with water. He felt somehow at peace as he gave up the fight for life in his heavily intoxicated state. He closed his eyes and his body fell limp and sank to the floor of the Thames. Montague John Druitt was dead.

***

Tuesday 4
th
December 10.45.a.m and Dr. Robert Anderson sat in one of the comfortable lounges of the Masonic Halls in Great Queen Street awaiting the arrival of Sir William Gull, the Queen’s personal physician. He sipped a large 12 year old single malt whiskey produced in distillery on the Isle of Skye from a heavy crystal cut glass tumbler savouring its distinctly peaty taste. He was becoming content that the potentially embarrassing loose ends concerning the Whitechapel Murders were now being wrapped up and Abberline would be forced to take the investigation in only one direction. Glancing down at the side of his high backed leather armchair he looked at the leather arts bag that his paid detective thugs had recovered for him. He had taken a look briefly inside it and was disgusted by its contents. He had also felt quite ill having pulled out one its macabre jars and looked inside and knew that its owner was obviously one of these ‘succession’ or ‘serial’ murder victims that Sir William had spoken of. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t noticed Gull appear from over his left shoulder and stand slightly offset in front of him. His attention was eventually drawn to him as Gull shuffled towards the leather chair opposite Anderson, the other side of the low mahogany drinks table from him.

“Deep in thought there, eh, Sir Robert?” Said Gull in a softly spoken voice. Anderson looked him up and down before he spoke and watched Gull lower himself into the chair opposite him. Anderson had only seen him once since his stroke and he could see how physically weakened the famous surgeon had become. But, his impaired health from his slow movements and much quieter voice belied the sharpness that his mind still possessed.

“Yes, I was. Thoughts of how depraved the owner of this bag must be. It’s only for the benefit of the Brotherhood that I am happy to ensure it is disposed of or returned.”

“Well not being a medical man I guess you would find it hard to understand, sir,” replied Gull as he settled into the chair. He was approached by a steward who dutifully stood by the two men to take a drinks order.

“Same again for me,” said Anderson.

“And for me please,” followed Gull promptly. “Now, Sir Robert, what can I do for you?”

“Lets dispense with the formalities, William, I thought you would want possession of these items,” said Anderson pointing to the bag, “and while we are at it, perhaps you could explain this murder theory of yours to me, and help me feel more comfortable as to why we should let this Tumblety man get away.”

Gull unbuttoned his jacket and took a deep breath casting his eyes around the room before beginning to speak. “Well. First of all he is a brother and the Movement must not be compromised or scandalised. You of all people know that, no matter what the events; we must protect. Secondly, I need to examine the status of the samples that have been collected to see if I can put some rational thought to Tumblety’s actions. After all, he was some kind of doctor so he may have been trying to discover something about sexual diseases, or the effects of class on prostitution or even ethnicity. He may have just been completely insane of course, but whatever the cause he pursued we are duty bound by the words of our degrees and the status of our offices to protect our brothers. If you can’t live with simple aspect of the honour of our organisation then you perhaps should think twice about your own membership.”

Anderson was offended by Gull’s words. He took a deep breath and leant forward in his seat slamming his glass down on the table and hissed a lowly spoken reply to him, trying to avoid their conversation being overheard. “How dare you! How bloody dare you, you senile old goat! I don’t care who you are and what standing you may have, don’t you dare speak to me like that or question my Masonic integrity. I am proud of who I am what I have done but I am not comfortable in protecting a mass murderer. There can be no justification for what he has done.”

“Don’t get too excited, Robert. Look at the class of those involved. It hardly matters. Having looked at the post mortem reports most of them would have been on the morticians table in months anyway.”

“You class conscious soulless snob! A human life is a human life. They are all of the same value even if they can’t all make the same contribution to society. I suppose you would endorse any medical experiment he may have been conducting then.”

“Only if the women had already been dead, and made available for it. You misunderstand my intention; I am merely trying to understand the justification in the actions within a troubled mind. The pattern of the actions from the nature of the specimens may help me do this. I don’t condone it so just calm down before the Duke arrives.”

They both sat back in their chairs in silence as the steward then arrived with the round of drinks, again in fine crystal cut glass tumblers. They continued sitting without conversation waiting for the Duke of Kent to arrive.

“Gentlemen, good day,” said the Duke as he took the third seat by the table. Anderson and Gull both looked up and nodded acknowledging his arrival. He could tell there had been tension between them.

“I take it you both find it hard to agree then?” Anderson spoke first.

“Well you hit the nail on the head there, Grand Inspector. This obsessive sees it only from the upper class medical perspective. He seems the feel the murders are less serious as they are low class unfortunates.”

“No you misunderstand. I shan’t explain again. Needless to say I am taking the fool Tumblety’s bag for examination,” replied a condescending Gull.

“I must stop you there, William. That will not be the case. It is damning evidence that I would like Assistant Commissioner Anderson to ensure it is disposed of by The Yard appropriately.” The Duke was resolute.

“But, Grand Inspector,” began Gull, “they will not arouse suspicion in my possession. I am a doctor and entitled to specimens. They may help me pursue my research on the matter of succession killing.” Gull protested.

“William, the reputation of the Brotherhood is more important than anything. They will be disposed of by the police and that is final. And while I am at it, get along to Abberline and tell him to disengage from this Tumblety matter and surrender anything else. From what you tell me he persists and must be stopped.” Anderson was quick to defend the Duke’s obvious feeling of inaction on his part.

“Grand Inspector, Abberline has been spoken to. His attempts to retain copies of papers relating to this Brother Tumblety have been thwarted, by my direct intervention. I have had this bag,” indicating to the leathers arts bag “recovered from Commercial Street Police Station and the Ripper incident room. These actions I have taken at great personal risk so please do not intimate that your precautions have not been enforced.”

Silence now fell amongst the three of them creating an uncomfortable pause. The two less prominent masons both took a drink from their tumblers nervously as the Duke pulled a cigar from inside his suit jacket and lifted one the halls packets of matches from the low coffee table. He un-wrapped the large Cuban cigar and ran it end to end under his nose twisting it as he did so. It smelt fresh with a rich tobacco aroma which conjured up visions of exotic native women rolling them on a sun drenched coast, as he had indeed witnessed on his travels in the Americas. He placed the cigar in his mouth and using the small packet of matches from the table casually struck one. Everyone got a brief hint of the phosphorous in its strike as he then placed the burning wooden stick to the end of the cigar. He sucked in several times and quickly the end of the Cuban was glowing. He shook the match out and dropped it into the ash tray. Enjoying a large draw on the cigar he tasted the bitter sweet smoke; it engendered him with taking it into his lungs before lifting his head a little to exhale it. He looked to Gull and Anderson and spoke calmly but menacingly.