Whitechapel (24 page)

Del felt the sharp pain of the strike immediately as it penetrated into his stomach and he dropped the cane to clutch his lower torso. He looked down to see the shining black appearance of moonlit blood flowing all over his hands. He dropped to his knees and looked up at his attacker in total surprise of what had happened. In doing so, he saw the swift shining action of the knife drawn to his left and then swing past his front, out of sight below his chin but biting almost painlessly in his state of high endorphin shock into his throat. The wound it opened up ran from his carotid artery to his jugular vein severing both and his wind pipe in the process. He stared for a few seconds speechlessly despite the fact he tried to shout for help at the last human face he would ever see; he was also the first policeman to see the face of the man who would become known as Jack the Ripper. He fell forwards lifelessly bleeding on the floor with an ever growing pool of blood forming around him.

Druitt came around and sat up from his momentary unconsciousness to see Tumblety standing over the prostrate figure in a dress surrounded by a pool of blood.

“My God! What have you done, Francis?

“Just dealing with a Goddamn thief within the Lord’s justice,” Tumblety said in a flat remorseless manner. He bent down to wipe the blade of his knife on the dress of his unfortunate victim.

“Are you mad? The Lord’s justice, an eye for a bloody eye? You’re bloody mad, I’m going to have to turn you in, friend or no friend, and he was a bloody copper!” Tumblety looked up at Druitt chillingly and spoke slowly and clearly so that his words would not be misunderstood.

“Listen to me, Monty, you are an accessory to all this, despite what you may plead to the police, so don’t fuck with me. Be a good British public schoolboy and keep your fucking mouth shut, if you value using it to breathe.”

“You can’t scare me, Francis, you can’t you know, I will admit being with you but I had no part in the murder you know. You’ll see.” All the time now, Druitt backed away from Tumblety ready to make a run for it knowing his own life was quite obviously in danger. At least he had his stick to defend himself at a distance.

Tumblety stood up and menacingly advanced toward the now shaking and profusely sweating Druitt. “Let me warn you once and for all, Montague, I will kill you right here and right now if you don’t give me your word that you’ll stay away from the filth. You stiff-assed, public school British are supposed to be good to your word. But, I‘ll know if you go to the cops subsequent to this, trust me, I will know, and you’ll be dead before I’m in one of their stinking cells.” He stared hard at his potential victim. “Trust me. I could be looking at a dead man.”

Druitt could feel the sweat running down his back and running along the sides of his face and dripping off of his chin. It streaked his necktie and created a dark soaked area plainly visible to his would-be murderer who looked calm and collected with the glinting knife in his hand and relishing the fear he could tell he was striking into Druitt. He swallowed hard and spoke in reply to Tumblety’s threat with obvious fear within him.

“All right, have it your way. I shan’t go to the police, and shan’t tell anyone anything. But don’t ever call for me again, if you see me in the street walk away, as I shall. There are no witnesses only you and I, so this unprovoked act of violence will for ever only be known to us, we who are responsible. Now, to use one of your terms, ‘fuck off’ and leave me alone. I am returning to Blackheath.” Druitt turned on his heel and made in the direction of Bethnal Green Road hearing no footsteps following him. A matter for which he was grateful; he did hear Tumblety call after him, however.

“Goodbye, Monty,
our
secret is safe with me, that’s for sure. Remember, whatever happens if I get rumbled you’re a dead man.” The words rang in Druitt’s ears again as he had felt them only seconds before as he kept on walking. He heard no footsteps closing on him as he continued walking; when he had made about a hundred and fifity yards he had to look round. Tumblety was gone, all that remained of the extreme violence of minutes before was the lifeless body of a man, possibly a policeman in a heavily blood soaked dress lying in an ever increasing pool of blood. Moments later he entered the approaching midnight bustle of Bethnal Green Road, with images in his mind that would haunt him until his untimely death.

CHAPTER TWELVE
 

Abberline and Godley were working late at The Street enjoying a steaming cup of tea each having been postulating about suspects, motives and potential victims, the last item being the only certainty within their discussion.

“Fred, we can’t do anymore tonight with no new information and God forbid no new victims. We have got to go home and especially you as you’ve been putting in hours that go beyond the call, old chum.” Abberline sat quietly for some moments before replying. He had both hands wrapped around the cup and twiddled his thumbs around its handle, staring as he pondered his reply.

“You’re right, old son, absolutely bloody right. George, not you the other George at home, needs me and so does the lovely Emma.” Abberline stood placing his mug empty on the desk and grabbed his jacket from behind his chair and swiftly put it on.

Meanwhile it was well after midnight by the time Robert had verified his identity back at The Street and was making his way to The Ten Bells. He rushed in through the double corner facing doors with Bruiser in tow on the same shabby piece of rope. He desperately scanned the bar area. It was fairly quiet now and it was immediately apparent that Del was not in there any longer, but where should he go to next to seek him out? Dragging the poor old dog along with him he made his way back up towards The Street and the Commercial Street Tavern which stood almost opposite the imposing police station. This time it was now around 12.30.a.m and the doors were firmly locked and no one appeared to be inside. “Where the fuck do I go now, Bruiser?”

Only seconds after this vocalised thought a hysterical woman came running out of Wheler Street screaming at the top of her voice “Murder, murder, he’s done a bleedin’ nother one. Help, help get the fuckin’ police!”

‘My, God! It was Liz Stride!’ Robert thought as he ran past her into Wheler Street to find the next unfortunate victim. As he ran ahead he could see a crumpled heap of woman’s clothes ahead under the railway bridge but in the darkness could not distinguish the colours so he would be completely unprepared for the shocking site about to greet him. He let go of the dog so that he could roll the body over and see if he could render any type of medical aid and to see if she was actually dead. He feared she would be on approach as he could see a massive black pool of liquid around the body which was how blood appeared in the moonlit dark.

The body still felt warm as he rolled her over and realised she appeared to have short hair and no hat which he then saw was lying discarded to one side. He stared into the face stained with blood as a result of the deeply slashed throat and saw with sickening reality that the lifeless body he was holding was Del Lake. “No!” he screamed loudly in the air and began to sob, pulling his dead friend in close to him burying his face into the material of his Del’s disguise and sobbing with almost no control of his breathing as he coughed and chocked on the tears and mucus generated by his intense and immediate grief. He had several minutes sitting on the cold and blood soaked pavement clutching his dead friend. Dead because he had deserted him to exact revenge for the death of another; dead because the neglect of his duty. The commotion created by Liz Stride drove several of the night duty uniform patrols to the scene of the crime.

He continued to sit with the body of his friend unwilling to let it go in his grief as the crowd around him grew made up of onlookers, police and some press until with the arrival of Dr Llewellyn and Inspector Chandler. Chandler was forced to put his hand firmly on Robert’s shoulder but spoke sympathetically to him to persuade him to let go. “You’ve got to let him go son, got to let him go and let the Doc do his bit, lad.” Robert reluctantly and gently laid his fallen colleague back onto the cold cobbles and slowly stood up. He was led away heavily saturated in blood by Bill Thick back to The Street whilst a messenger was sent out to call Abberline to the scene of the latest blood bath.

***

3.a.m and Abberline awoke with a harsh wrapping on his door. George began barking violently and by the time Abberline got to the front door the dog was jumping high against the front door ready to ward off the threat he perceived. Abberline gripped the dog under his chest and picked him up tucking him firmly under his right arm and then opened the door. Standing there was a uniformed constable with a black Mariah from the local nick who hurriedly conveyed his message with such urgency that the sleepy and bleary eyed inspector didn’t catch a word of it.

“Say that again son so that it’s intelligible in this time zone?”

“Mr Abberline, come quick, Wheler Street there’s been another one. ‘Orrible it is, some copper called Del Lake.”

“What do you mean, Lake found it?”

“No, sir, it is bloody Del Lake, butchered he is!”

Within ten minutes Abberline was dressed and in the carriage and on way to the scene. Sitting in the area usually only reserved for prisoners he contemplated the next step in the investigation. Was it safe to continue with such patrols? Perhaps it would be better to draft in more uniform from the City Police or from outer London divisions. He would have to enter discussions with Superintendent Arnold following an exchange of views with Godley. The streets were still dark as the Mariah rattled down the cobbled surface of the Romford Road and into Stratford High Street and beyond and by quarter to four they were at the scene.

The uniform presence under Inspector Chandler had managed to completely clear the crowds leaving only a cordon of what were highly depressed officers at the scene. Their faces told many stories of grief for the loss of a colleague and concern for their own safety, albeit this murder of an officer was in exceptional circumstances. Abberline foresaw the need arising to address the entire manpower of The Street over the next few days. Officers stepped aside to allow him through giving a respectful nod of the head as they did so. The scene was perfectly preserved with Del still in situe as per previous instructions from the detectives for maximum evidential purposes. The sight of the butchered young officer even upset Abberline a hardened campaigner feeling a massive responsibility for his death undercover. He scoured the scene for clues himself of any form as Chandler stepped forward to speak to him.

“Fred, Dr Llewellyn has done an initial examination, pronounced life extinct, etc says he’ll see you at the mortuary this afternoon for a full P.M. It’ll be the London’s for your information. Sorry, mate, you must feel bad.”

“Can’t help it, John, he volunteered I know but he was part of my team. I feel sorry for his mate, but what the fuck was he doing? I’ve got to speak to him and find out what the hell has gone on, mate.”

“Poor bastard is back at The Street in your office. We’ve done everything here; do you want us to clear up, mate?”

“Yes, thanks, I’ll just have a little walk around while you do.”

As officers began gathering implements to clear the blood, a couple of morticians took Del’s body away and the whole area was washed down. Abberline began walking around the scene in ever increasing concentric circles one hand behind his back with the other holding a lamp seeing if there was any detail, small object that might have been missed. He must have been scouring the area for about half an hour when eventually on the other side of the road by the gutter he spotted a brass military type button.

It was very clean so he surmised that it could have only have been lost there recently, possibly in the struggle, and took a good look at it. It bore an emblem that he was not familiar with and didn’t seem typically British military. The emblem was of two crossed cavalry type cutlasses both curving up to the top of the button. He placed it in his pocket and headed off towards The Street. The button would become a wasted clue in an unsolved murder.

***

Meanwhile Tumblety was sipping coffee comfortably in his new and occasional surroundings in Batty Street looking out of his front window viewing the varied human traffic going past. He had already laundered his slightly soiled clothing and was preparing to return early afternoon to the more salubrious comforts of the Ritz Hotel. He felt no remorse for his actions; such feelings had long deserted him in his murderous quest for justice and to expand his horrifying collection. He would have to find Kelly soon as bills needed to be paid. He was more than certain of Druitt’s silence but would be prepared to enforce it if necessary. He would leave his drying clothing here and make use of the spares that he had now kept in his bolt hole. He finished his coffee pulled on his plain overcoat to travel more covertly back to the West End as men of his class and look would generally only be seen in the locality at night. Locking the door he made his way along Batty Street to Commercial Road and disappeared into the crowds.

Druitt was down at Wapping Steps smoking furiously and nervously staring into the Thames wondering if long term he could hold his silence. Having witnessed such extreme violence on a scale he had never before encountered either personally or as a witness, his already troubled mind from a life of what he considered to be of failure was in turmoil. He truly feared Dr Tumblety and fully believed that any incriminating action he took would surely bring him to his door. He took comfort in the silence of The Steps as he finished his fourth cigarette of the last quarter of an hour.

***

Abberline found Robert Ford with his head in hands, elbows resting on a desk staring bloodshot at the suspect blackboard. The lad was clearly traumatised, but fault had to be established.

“Tea, lad?” Ford didn’t look up but answered.

“I’ll have one, but don’t give me any bollocks about it curing all ills, Guv.”