Whitechapel (67 page)

“Get over to the shed please, gentlemen,” said the Major in a somewhat disappointed tone.

The colour had now drained completely from his face and he was led by two prison guards out of the cell on his slow final death walk. Once out into the open air his true ashen pale colour showed through in the subdued morning daylight and he stumbled on numerous occasions having to be supported by the two guards. When he eventually looked up having taken his first unsteady steps out in the open he noticed the executioners wooden shed now less than fifty yards away from him. He fell to his knees immediately dragged back up by the two guards and began sobbing loudly again and screamed for mercy in Polish, a language that none of the gathered officials could understand. About ten yards from the shed door he collapsed one last time and was then physically carried into the building and to the base of the steps of the scaffolding.

In Polish, as they began the walk up the thirteen steps to the point of the executioners ‘6-6’ drop, he cursed those that would ‘take his miserable life’ under his breath. He was centred on the wooden trap door, which gave slightly as it took up his weight, by Billington and would soon drop away.

“All right son, nice and steady, nice and still that’s it,” said Billington as he neared the completion of his work. He strapped his legs together tightly and said nothing else to the clearly terrified and violently trembling Klosowski.

The white hood was then placed over his head and adjusted accordingly. The rope with thirteen turns constructed of hemp and silk was placed over his head and tightly pulled. Billington quickly found the right place for the knot to be placed for best and swiftest effect. With the shock of having had the rope placed over his head Klosowski seemed to raise his body as the final reality of it struck home. The thirteen foot rope, now stretched from the night before by Billington, would allow the proper force to be transmitted to the prisoner’s neck for the maximum and quickest effect. Klosowski was muttering incessantly below the hood while Billington gave a swift look to the officials gathered with Major Knox. Billington always tried to make the procedure within the shed as brisk as possible to keep the massive fear of imminent death to the minimum.

Almost as Knox gave a nod Billington pulled the lever for the trap doors. They opened with a small banging sound and 37 year old Severin Klosowski dropped the 6’6” from the trap door to the end of the rope’s fall. As the rope almost instantly reached the end of its drop it snapped the prisoner’s neck and his head jerked backwards ending his life with an incredibly loud audible snap of bone and vertebrae tissue. The sound of the trap doors banging open would have been the last sound Klosowski heard. His body twitched and shook for a moment and then swayed silently as bodily fluids drained out of it. There was silence across the scaffold amongst the execution team and the gathered witnesses, most of who despite not being strangers to these events were still shocked by the controlled brutality of the procedure.

Attending as a government official was a local doctor called Beamish who now stepped forward from the witness gallery to certify that life was extinct. Placing a stethoscope on Klosowski’s chest there was a faint heart beat that very quickly faded away to nothing and Dr Beamish was indeed able to pronounce him dead. He was then left hanging in the shed, which was secured to prevent theft of the body, for one hour which ensured that there would be no mistake in his death.

An hour later the execution team led by William Billington returned to the locked shed and removed the body to be taken to the district coroner Mr Troutbeck. Under his examination and following a short inquest it was noted that the dead Klosowski’s neck was now elongated by about one inch. The traditional black flag was raised above the prison to signify that an execution had taken place. Gathered outside the prison gates was a crowd of about 150 people consisting of journalists, the curious members of the public, a small group of relatives of the victims of Jack the Ripper and curiously, with her brother Stanislaus and her sister, was Lucy Klosowski, formerly Baderski. They were comforting her as the flag was raised as Severin had refused to see her or anyone else prior to his execution barring the compulsory visit of the priest. The rest of the crowd cheered as the flag moved up its pole, especially those with family links to the victims who had gathered following the reported speculation that Klosowski was the infamous Whitechapel Murderer as a result of Abberline’s comment to Godley. There were some women who then broke in tears who had a close link to either Tabrum, Nichols, Chapman, Stride, Eddowes or Kelly. Photographers with the journalists took a few still pictures of the throng and of the flag above the prison. As the wave of macabre euphoria passed among the crowd the journalists got to work interviewing the most vulnerable or vociferous.

Stanislaus gave his grieving sister a hug having introduced her to Severin many years before. Despite his monstrous acts he was still her husband and the father to her three children and she therefore felt affection for his part in this family group. Seeing a journalist and photographer approach them, Stanislaus ushered all three of them away and they disappeared through the crowd and then out of sight.

Klosowski was buried in an unmarked grave within the walls of the prison with the rope still tight around his neck. He would be one of only 763 hung throughout England and Wales during the 20
th
century upon the last working gallows to be dismantled in England. They were last used on September 8
th
1961, the anniversary of Annie Chapman’s murder and dismantled on the 31
st
July 1992.

***

St John’s Hospital situated at 307 South Euclid Avenue, St Louis, Missouri had been established in 1871 by Mother M de Pazzi Bentley as a charitable hospice for the care of the old and infirm and terminally ill. It had been run for sometime by the Sisters of Mercy and as Francis Tumblety reached seventy years of age with failing health he had decided that it would be a good place to die. The fight, resilience and resourcefulness within him had long since gone and he found it difficult to look after himself. He had become particularly fond of Sister Mary Theresa the red haired pretty Irish nun who treated him with a tenderness for which he had always longed. She knew him as Francis Townsend the name under which he had registered when he had arrived at the hospital on Sunday 26
th
April 1903. He was fond of shuffling around the grounds with his walking stick for support in his faded red and threadbare military tunic. He had few possessions all of which he was open about as none of them held a clue to his evil past.

On Monday 25
th
May he had become very weak and he realised with the medical knowledge he possessed that had little time left owing to a serious heart condition he had developed in the last twelve months. That day he insisted on dressing for his usual walk and showing his old and normally subdued strength of will and independence he went for his walk alone. The air smelt fresh and cool during that morning and its fantastic summer nature reminded him of when he had first met Mary Kelly. The aggression and bitterness that accompanied their relationship was something that he failed to recall with halcyon images of their times together before Paris, and the renewal of his faith in womankind. He strolled amongst the leafy orchard of peach trees with it’s fantastic fruit laden scent, the sumptuous lawns and the finely laid ornamental gardens with their elegant topiary; it was here he concluded that this was a fitting last place on earth in which to exist.

He had walked for quite sometime tiring himself greatly but not really aware of the flat footed nature with which he was shuffling around the grounds. He made it back to the steps at the rear of the hospital which ran down from a set of fine oak carved ornamental double doors that opened out onto this idyllic vista. He sat slowly and awkwardly on the steps, his every muscle and joints in his legs straining to get himself seated to take in the view. He was unaware that his stick was only teetering on the edge of a step to give him support and as it tried to bear all of his body weight it slipped forward off of its precarious perch. Tumblety fell forward completely losing his balance and toppling down several of the steps his face striking hard on one of the steps breaking his nose. He was fortunate not to break any other of his fragile bones as he lay concussed at the base of the steps.

His strolling of the grounds and now this drama was being observed by a middle aged well dressed stranger. He was lean in his build with marginally greying hair, and looked on with concern from the orchard as he saw the old man fall. ‘Bollocks. Not having come this far. He can’t collapse without the chance of a question being asked.’ The thoughts of disappointment rushed through his mind. He looked on to see two of the nuns rush down the steps to tend the frail old man. They gently lifted his limp body between them and got it sat on the steps; his face lifted to look out over the grounds which showed the old man’s face streaming with blood. He looked seriously distressed but he was at least alive. ‘Still a chance to speak to this man about his past’. A third nun came into view at the top of the steps with a heavy wooden wheel chair. She then descended the few steps to join her colleagues and they eased the old man up the steps and into the wheel chair. He looked ill and winced as one of the nuns tried to gently wipe the blood from his face. The stranger hoped there was still time to have his questions answered. He would use the guile that he knew the old man had used many years ago in London to evade justice. The old man was turned around into a wheel chair and taken back into the hospital building. One of the nuns walked back down the steps and picked up the old man’s stick. The stranger had seen this stick many years before and knew it had itself born witness to the terrible acts committed by the one who now left it lying at the base of the steps.

***

Thursday 28
th
May; the weak and ailing Francis Townsend lay in his bed in a private room with the warm summer sun streaming through the window. His squinting eyes were able to make out the deep green leaves of the peach trees in the orchard having been propped up in the bed by Sister Mary Theresa when he had first woken. With his sins playing over in his mind along with the thoughts of the life he had led he knew that his time was drawing near. He stared around the comfortable though austere room and felt sad that he had so little to show for his seventy years from an intrinsic point of view that he could willingly pass on. In reality, however, he had no one to benefit from any mementoes he would leave behind.

He heard the door to the room open and turning his head slowly he looked across the room toward it. Closing the door behind him was a smartly turned out, middle aged, lean, slightly greying catholic priest carrying a bag that had a familiar look to it in his failing glance. He had thoughts of requesting absolution but had felt almost too guilty to do so for fear of the sisters discovering his secret; not that a priest would pass on his secret. Seeing the priest he knew he must seize the opportunity to do so and die at least he felt with a clear conscience.

Tumblety’s eyes were failing and he could not really distinguish the finer points of the priest features, yet when he spoke he sounded familiar and certainly hadn’t been a local man by birth.

“Father, how fortuitous for me to see you. Thank you,” said Tumblety weakly, his mouth feeling dry and his heart seemingly labouring.

“You are welcome, my son. The sisters had informed me you had not been well these last few days.” The priest’s voice was that of an Englishman and had a colloquial quality he recognised.

“Are you from London, father?” He asked quietly.

“Yes, my son. From a London parish but I am here as a missionary. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

“Forgive me, father, I have sinned.” Tumblety began with a rasping voice and with a struggle for breath. “I have done terrible things and I seek absolution. I have fuelled the commission of terrible things too.”

The priest sat at the side of the bed with seemingly an air of curiosity over any other emotion. As he sat Tumblety could hear the knocking of the priest’s rosary beads; as a formerly devout catholic during his formative years it was a sound that took him back to his childhood.

“Be calm, my son, and speak. God is here to hear your confession. His greatest gift is forgiveness.” The voice and even the priest’s presence were familiar to Tumblety. In his condition though, he was more concerned in seeking forgiveness.

“Father, in 1888, fifteen years ago in London I committed some unspeakable acts of wickedness and I pursued a sickening agenda.” He stopped speaking and began coughing violently. As the coughing died down the priest passed him a glass of water. He slowly drank it, very gladly soothing his throat, and then continued.

“Father, it is very simple. I was Jack the Ripper.” Stunned silence fell between them; Tumblety sensed that the priest was seemingly waiting to hear more. He swallowed hard and continued.

“Father, I was driven into it by jealousy and provocation. Voices possessed me and drove me on and all because the two true loves of my life sinned against me so developing a mistrust and hate of woman kind. This hate drove me to kill and obtain unspeakable trophies from them, the possession of trophies was a vice I developed before the killing began because of the hate inside. But after committing so many of these crimes I found salvation when I met the second woman I had loved in my life again whilst I still felt driven to kill her. She made me realise I was weak; I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t kill her so I sinned further; I coerced someone else to do it.”

Sobbing from the cathartic out pouring of guilt, Tumblety was unaware of the priest’s demeanour. He was leaning up closely to him scowling with hate, knuckles white from gripping the beads and seemingly hanging on to his every word. He was transfixed on what the old man had to say and hadn’t even noticed for quite a few seconds that the confessor had paused and was struggling to compose himself. The priest snapped out of his fixation to speak to the old man.