Whitechapel (61 page)

“Good point. I want you, if you will, to stay working with us on the investigations as a liaison, which you have told us you already are, but more importantly for your police powers.” There was a pause and looking at Detective Hickey Andrews noticed that he looked a little unfulfilled. He took stock of what he had just said and quickly addressed it.

“And of course and most importantly, for your law enforcement experience, especially your local knowledge of New York City.”

“Mr Andrews, when do you want to start taking over the majority of the surveillance?”

“Well. Tomorrow would be good if we go off to our accommodation now to get rid of a luggage and get a fresh start then.”

“Great. Let’s go, the hotel is comfortable and it serves good beer. The welcome drink is courtesy of Chief Inspector Byrne.”

“Splendid,” replied Andrews who put his hand in a comradely way on Hickey’s shoulder allowing him to board the carriage first. They all boarded and the driver snapped his crop and they lurched off along the cobbles.

***

Abberline re-entered the room to find everyone looking at him in stunned silence. He looked around at his loyal team and it took him some minutes before he could compose himself to speak. He was genuinely unsettled by Anderson’s visit and looked at the faces of these trustworthy, decent men and felt humbled in their dedicated presence. Before he was about to speak Robert Ford broke the silence.

“Guv’nor, this all stinks. That man who was here was the same man that led the attack on me and the papers I was getting copied. I recognise that voice anywhere, he’s the one that fucking killed his own and was going to do me. I’m sure I speak for all of us,” he said looking around the room as he spoke, “but what the hell is going on?”

Silence again descended over the room as Abberline coughed to clear his throat before speaking. He looked down at his feet, then up in the air, scratched his forehead and then spoke.

“Gentlemen, we are in the hands of a conspiracy that runs deep into the heart of the British establishment. It has roots within the judiciary, government, an unsuspecting Royal family and of course the police service. It is more powerful than any of us and we are all fucked if we attempt to take the Tumblety issue any further; and it makes me sick to the stomach.” There was silence across the room again which was broken by Ford.

“Who are these people? What is going on, Guv?” There was a long pause before Abberline then spoke expressing his ill feelings.

“Freemasons were responsible for corruption in the detective department before and it’s happening all over again and it makes me sick. For those of you that don’t know, back in 1877 it was discovered that virtually every officer in the Yard’s C.I.D was in the pay of vicious swindlers. It all started in 1872 when John Meiklejohn, an inspector and a mason, met William Kurr another mason and head of a bogus betting agency. This crook needed someone in the force to tip him off as to when the police were gaining enough to nick them for their business. Meiklejohn accepted £100 bribe to keep the old bill off their backs. Trouble was all the blokes in the C.I.D were masons, except the Boss, Superintendent Williamson; all the senior detectives, Clarke, Palmer and Druscovitch all fucking masons. None of them were fussed therefore about Meiklejohn and his carry-ons. He was known in coded messages from his criminal mason friends as ‘
countryman,
’ and I say friends in plural as it included not only Kurr but a dangerous madman called Harry Benson. Benson was known as a lunatic from an incident where whilst in Newgate he set light to himself on his bed leaving himself scarred and crippled. Meiklejohn introduced all the junior detectives into the payroll but they were all found out when Benson and Kurr pulled off one job too big when they managed to swindle £10,000 out of a French noble woman. Williamson put Druscovitch in charge of the investigation, not knowing of the corruption involved; but when he made no headway Williamson took action. Eventually all the corrupt officers, all bloody masons, were brought to justice leaving the C.I.D in ruins. It was after that I moved into the department and I swore that they would never get that sort of hold again.” He was silent for a few seconds before finishing. “But look what’s happened. The bastards have got control again and they are so powerful there is nothing we can do.”

Robert Ford thought long and hard on Abberline’s words and knew from that day the masons would never get the better of him, his future investigations and in his pursuit of justice for Mary. “Guv, Anderson was prepared to kill me, one of his officers. I mean, to whom does he give the greatest loyalty? Law and order, or these freemasons?”

“Simple answer to that, lad. To the Brotherhood and never forget it. You’ll never be able to, in their eyes, out smart them. You might win a battle, as they say, but never the war.” Abberline paused and then spoke again. “George, come with me down the post office we’ve got to contact Wally Andrews and call him off. Gentlemen, the pursuit of Tumblety ends here. Let’s try and salvage something and find this Chapman or Klosowski bloke.”

Abberline left the office followed very quickly by George Godley as everyone else looked around the room at each other and silently got on with their tasks; some leaving the office, others back to the dull process of sifting the various statements and their content.

***

Wednesday 5
th
December 8.a.m, Andrews and Bentham arrived at number 80 East Tenth Street via the rear to take over the day shift from the NYPD men. They were quickly left there by themselves, save for a lone local cop watching the rear of the premises, and settled in to watching from the behind the net curtains of the bay window. The occupant already knew who they were looking at being familiar with Mrs McNamara’s regular lodger and his less than wholesome reputation. Andrews’s hopes of the investigation being discreet were more than compromised and hoped the path of it would not lead to more bad news for Abberline. At this stage he was unaware of the events of the week in London and the fact that he shouldn’t even be pursuing Tumblety. He was blamelessly oblivious to the fact that Abberline had, at that point, not told The Yard’s hierarchy that men were on a mission in America.

The distance across the street was such that they didn’t need to use an implement like a telescope. The occupier had very happily and hospitably served them coffee and American cookies but then left them to it. Little did they know that the day’s events would be relayed to the local press by their apparent host. The weather outside was grey and overcast, and being the time of the year it was only just a little beyond dawn as they began their vigil. The odd carriage passed by outside with condensed breath visible from the mouths of the hard working horses pulling them. Many of the passing pedestrians too had sharply visible breath as they came by wrapped up for the cold with many rubbing their hands or wrapping their arms around themselves to keep warm.

They had been watching for nearly two hours when the front door opened and they waited almost holding their breath for an occupant to emerge. They weren’t disappointed. A well dressed man emerged sporting a dark brown bowler hat and a cane. He had a large moustache and looked to be the height and build of the man they were after. Certainly at the distance they were, both seemed sure that this was their man. He looked up and down the street almost as if he was aware he might be being watched before he set off down the stoop to reach the street. Weston certainly was somewhat surveillance conscious as a result of the deal he had struck with the curious Dr Townsend and was indeed looking for local cops on the watch for him. It had been a secondary reason why he hadn’t ventured out for several days in the naïve hope that they might have got bored and left. He could see no one so felt unsure either way. The air was crisp and cool and he was pleased with the gloves he had also brought out with him along with a heavy astrakhan overcoat. He quite fancied a walk to work off some the excesses he had indulged in and turned left at the bottom of the stoop.

“Right. Bentham, stay here and see who else comes and goes. I’m off after him to see where he is going.” Andrews was totally unaware that the subject they were observing was not their man who was now long gone to Rochester. He emerged cautiously from the front door of number 80 and had Townsend in his sights now some fifty yards or so along the road, a distance with which he was happy, and began his surveillance following on foot. He had one concern right at that point. The traffic was sparse and if Townsend hailed a cab he could lose him as they didn’t seem common place along the street. Inspector Andrews observed that Townsend walked briskly as he made his way along East Tenth Street almost as if he sensed that there was danger to him and he inconspicuously wished to distance himself from it. With a mind to the crimes that Scotland Yard believed he was guilty of, that notion was no surprise to Andrews as he walked quickly himself to maintain his distance and keep his quarry in sight. Weston, aware that he was still in the guise of Townsend gave a couple of furtive glances behind him as they made their way to the junction with Lexington Avenue. He didn’t pick up on Andrews following him with a group of three Irish migrants walking in-between laughing and chatting loudly and catching Weston’s attention instead. A very fortunate circumstance for the English detective, in an otherwise fairly quiet residential street.

On reaching Lexington he turned towards Central New York and again began looking over his shoulder. At the corner Andrews had slowed and peered cautiously round shielded by a stoop to observe Townsend’s actions. The Irishmen had crossed straight over the junction but fortunately for the detective Lexington was a much busier street. It appeared that Townsend was looking for a cab as he kept walking and glancing much more frequently over his shoulder at the approaching traffic. Andrews was forced to let the distance between them increase to avoid being spotted and allowed Townsend about 100 yards on him. Townsend eventually stopped and stood at the kerb side to watch the traffic in more detail approaching him. From his ad-hoc manner when he had first entered Lexington he had already missed two empty cabs that had been travelling in the same direction. Andrews stopped and was looking in the window of a corner store as he saw a cab stop for Townsend.

He looked along the avenue beyond the now boarding Townsend in the hope that there was another empty cab not far behind. He couldn’t see anything other than a few loaded delivery wagons. He looked back to the cab to see Townsend now sitting back comfortably within it and he began to feel anxious. There was still no following cab in sight and he could certainly not hear the destination that Townsend was shouting to the driver who was leaning back to hear his passenger’s directions. The cab driver snapped his crop by the horse’s ear and the cab lurched off. A desperate situation required a desperate measure. The last of the delivery wagons in the line was just passing him; he began to run to match its speed and grabbed hold of the hand rail on its side to gain purchase to climb aboard next to the driver. He pulled himself up explosively to match the vehicles movement and then landed awkwardly next to the driver bumping into him, knocking him slightly left of his perch.

“Goddamn, mister! What the hell is going on?” screamed the astonished wagon driver.

“Sorry, old man,” said Andrews at the same time pulling out his leather wallet holding his police warrant identity. He showed it to his new found associate as he straightened his position. “Inspector Walter Andrews, on the trail of Jack the Ripper. In the name of Queen Victoria her Britannic Majesty I ask you to follow that cab up the in the distance.” The driver looked at him open mouthed, completely aghast of this Englishman’s arrival and his dramatic assertion. As it slowly sank in and he looked ahead to see the cab in question and then looked back at Andrews.

“You a real Scotland Yard detective, fella?” asked the stunned American.

“Yes, and on the most infamous case in Europe. Please help out, old man. I need to follow this man’s movements,” he replied, almost pleading now as he could see the cab with Townsend starting to make some ground on them.

“All right, buddy, you bet ya. Let’s go!” He snapped the crop again with the horse picking up a little more speed and beginning to pass the other goods wagons. Within in few seconds Andrews was happy that they were keeping pace with Townsend and he was able to relax a little. They continued towards Central New York.

***

Klosowski and Lucy were now a significant way across the Atlantic bound for America themselves following the immediate and cunning escape orchestrated by him. He had got them out of London and up to the port city of Liverpool to gain the earliest passage that he could to America which was a ship bound for New Jersey. It sailed on the evening tide of the 29
th
November which had proved the last opportunity by sheer chance for them to have fled as the news hit the ports first thing on the 30
th
following Abberline’s directions. The speed of their escape was enhanced by payments to carriage drivers and bribes to railway and port officials that meant they were well able to flee the country long before word had reached the ports of their descriptions and immediate detention. The vessel they had boarded was purely commercial and he had obtained a cabin that was comfortable but Spartan. To him it mattered not as he was pleased to have evaded capture and to Lucy she was grateful of an opportunity to ‘start a new’ as he had put it and the promise of starting a family. She did live in fear of him as a result of his overpowering and intimidating personality and because of the violent secrets she suspected that he withheld from her.

They would both end up back in London in years to come. She would leave him and returning on her own some months before him and giving birth to what would be by that time their second child. The new life she had wished for would prove short lived in New Jersey, but she would at least prove to be one of the only unfortunate women to come into Klosowski’s life and survive. She sat alone in the cabin staring out of the salt stained porthole at the grey and swelling, ominous North Atlantic while Severin ingratiated himself amongst the crew to curry favour. He especially kept himself in with the wireless operators to get to hear of any of the mainland communiqués that were received. His ability to persistently bribe those who crossed his path on this journey continued with the suppression of the wire regarding the Tottenham and Whitechapel murders. It allowed him their safe passage and disembarkation in the New World. For the conscious free Klosowski, however, justice would eventually catch up with him after a new murderous spree of a different kind back in London.