Whitechapel (25 page)

“Now don’t be stroppy, boy, seeing as how I need to know where the fuck you were, milk and sugar?”

“Just milk please, Guv.”

Abberline finished making the steaming drinks for them both from the permanently boiling kettle and sat down opposite Ford forcing him to therefore converse directly with him.

“Where were you then, Ford?” Robert lifted his face from his hands, sniffed and looked tearfully into the ceiling. He was considering his words and began after some seconds of silence.

“I was following a lead, got distracted. Thought I had seen someone responsible for the murder of the paperboy.”

“Who?”

“Ralph, the lad murdered up by the park, his dog went mad when some bloke came by into Commercial Street so I followed him off but he did a runner to St Katherine’s and I couldn’t find him. Came back and it had all happened. It’s my fucking fault. I’m ready for discipline and if you need, I’ll jump before being pushed.”

“St Katherine’s? That’s a bloody long way. Who was this person?”

“Ostrog. But I lost him, Guv.” Ford expressed these false sentiments without any remorse within him.

“Right. I have no choice, you’re suspended from now on, no pay, sorry, but that I know is the standard line. You’ve got some guilt to carry and deal with, so get away for a while if you can.” There was silence between them for sometime while they both sipped tea and obviously each considered the future. Ford finished his mug and stood to address Abberline.

“Boss, I didn’t expect any less. I can’t get away; I’ve got to do what I can to help, so I’d appreciate any clues so I can do my bit.”

“Sorry, no way, you’ve got to stay away. Get involved and I’ll have you nicked, lad, or we’ll both be in the shit.” He put his mug down and forced his hands into his pockets and paced through the frustration of Ford’s futile request.

“Fuck the job, guv, you’ll have to have the boys nick me if I’m in the way then!” Abberline flung his hands out of his pockets to place them on the desk to lean forward menacingly at Ford. As he did so they were both distracted by the fall of the button that landed on the desk. Abberline had accidentally flung it from his pocket as a result of the angry confrontation. Ford immediately grabbed it and looked closely at it.

“Give it back to me now, Constable!”

“Constable? You said I was suspended. Was this found with Del?”

“What if it was? Nothing to do with you now, just give it back.” Ford took one last look at the cutlass emblem on the button before tossing it carelessly back at the D.I.

“Keep it. I’ve seen it. Very unusual don’t you think? You better find who it came from before I do.” Ford stormed out before Abberline had time to fully respond. He saw little point shouting after him so would give him time to calm down and go and visit him at his home in a few days, if he hadn’t already got himself arrested.

***

Several hours later during the afternoon, Tumblety picked up the Wednesday 25
th
September edition of The Star and read the front page with shock and disbelief:

‘Whitechapel Killer taunts Police with Letter.’

He quickly turned the pages to read the re-produced words of the impostor to his crimes, although the possibility struck him that it may have been written by Annie Chapman’s killer. Many thoughts crossed his mind: ‘How dare someone lay claim? Why the hell make such pretence? If I want publicity directly,
I’ll
ask for it. How dare they!’ He continued his walk along Piccadilly to return to the Ritz from an afternoon lunch by himself and finished the paper in the lounge bar by reception with a large Bourbon. Having finished both he discarded the paper with some fury in a rubbish bin and abruptly ordered a second drink from a passing waiter.

“Don’t you think you could be a little less curt, sir?” asked the offended waiter, foolishly.

“JUST GET ME THE GODDAMN DRINK!”
raged an angered Tumblety to this, what he considered impertinence.
The voices made themselves quite plain and they added within his thoughts ‘Write your own letter to set things straight.’ The waiter returned with the drink on a tray, Tumblety stood up and faced him, took the glass and shot the Bourbon back in one go, slamming the glass back down on the tray from which he had taken it and hissing at the incredulous waiter “Put it on my tab!” and stormed off to his room. There, at the desk by the window overlooking Green Park he was completely alone with his thoughts twisted by rage and alcohol. His mind was fuelled by the dangerous combination of mental instability and excessive drink consumption.

‘Okay, how to write this, Dear? …………..boss, yeah, that’s it now time to humiliate and taunt those goddamned cops straight out and that freak the papers reported on ‘Leather Apron.’ I’ve gotta mock them and show them I’ll make my mark, and keep going ‘til
I’m
done. Add in a clue for them to know when I strike again this letter is genuine. Don’t want them to know I’m too clever always, few grammar errors and a name? Yeah that’ll do, perfect! Enough to spite and intrigue. Me, I’m the one in control!’

He read the letter aloud back to himself once finished.

Dear Boss,

I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they won’t fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits. I am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no real time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper
red
stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope
ha.ha.
The next job I do I shall clip the lady s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldn’t you. Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work. then give it out straight. My knife’s so sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.

Yours truly

Jack the Ripper

Don’t mind me giving the trade name.

Tumblety then knocked over the red ink he had decided to use messing it all over his hands while he tried to read over the letter with it, but smearing it with the red ink as he did so. It forced him to add:

“wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now
ha ha”

He was pleased with himself; he had even added the ‘no time to squeal reference to upset the police more than his other taunts referring to the murder of the policeman in disguise. He felt the name was pure genius and would immortalise the mark he was making on the East End. His natural arrogance and showmanship came through in this bold nom de plum. He dated it 25/9/1888 and posted it to ‘The Boss, Central News Office, London City’, a very American way of addressing not unlike saying New York City. Was it too much of a clue? His arrogance made him think not, history would be the ultimate judge.

That night Tumblety celebrated with a quiet dinner alone in one of the salons of the Ritz accompanying his meal with an expensive Chateau Neuf du Pape. Whist enjoying this with his chateaubriand he was approached by the hotel manager who had a somewhat stern look on his face.

“Dr Tumblety, I am sorry to intrude, but may I take a moment of your time?”

“Sure, Mr Wilkins, what can I do for you?”

“You are running up somewhat of a high debt for which we would like to take a least part payment, sir, would it be convenient to get a cheque for say £400 in a few days?” Tumblety stopped chewing for a brief second in surprise for needing to come up with so much in such a short time. With the precious stones not yet recovered it would be nearly impossible. He would be forced over the next few nights to try to get information on where Mary Kelly was or actually find her. He regained his composure, gave a small nervous cough to clear his throat and smiled,

“Mr Wilkins, I will have you a cheque on Monday, sir.” Wilkins nodded and smiled back replying “Thank you, Doctor, never a chore, sir.” He hurried off towards the lobby area. Tumblety was now all too aware of how embarrassing his situation could become but decided to at least enjoy the extravagancies that were before him.

Meanwhile Robert was close to being unconscious in The Ten Bells, mourning his friend and not knowing where his beloved Mary was in his hour of need. His speech had been slurred for at least the last hour but the barman, knowing him well and having heard the news unofficially as a result of local hearsay, was happy to ply Robert with drink to ease the pain. He was barely able to prop himself up sitting on a barstool his hands slipping up the side of his face desperately trying to support his spinning head and keep his eyes open. Eventually his hands were unable to support his swirling head and it crashed to the bar surface as they gave way and in a domino effect he slumped off of the stool and ended up in a heap on the floor of the pub. The landlord let him lay there to sleep it off whilst the pub cleared during the course of the late evening.

At that same time Abberline was at Scotland Yard in conference with Superintendent Arnold and the Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren. Between them they had had to make a startlingly difficult decision.

“Abberline, I fully understand why we must suppress the news about it being a policeman killed, but can’t we cover it up as just another unfortunate?”

“Sir Charles, no we can’t, sir, because another murder added to his tally will help fuel more fear, panic and news sensationalism in the area. Some of the stories doing the rounds are complete supernatural hokum.”

“I must agree with Abberline, Sir Charles, for now we must make as little of this as possible. No adding more to the killer’s tally and no letting on that we have officers in any disguise, let alone as women.”

“Yes, quite. Tell me, Abberline, will you do another female disguise operation?”

“Not immediately, Sir Charles, we‘ll do it more conventionally for a while. A second one would break the C.I.D I feel and only give the public more ammo to launch at you, sir.”

“Yes, good point. Tom, anything to add?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, good evening, gentlemen. Thank you.”

Arnold and Abberline left the Commissioner’s office. It was getting late.

***

The letter was received by the Central News Agency on Thursday 26
th
September and was initially treated as a joke by all who read it, but it did give a glorious title to the perpetrator of the crimes which would, on the day it was passed to Scotland Yard, be splashed across the front pages and leave the killer with an indelible mark on history. The fulfilment that Tumblety would gain from this coverage and anonymous notoriety was immense when it came. ‘Jack the Ripper’ would live within the minds of most of the western world forever more. Reaching the hands of Haddaway and Will Bates it would make unbelievable copy for them in almost doubling their circulation when running an exclusive at great expense in return for the rights to it solely for use in The Star. Tumblety’s letter was passed to the police on Saturday 28
th
with the following note hand written by Thomas Bulling a forty year journalist employed by the CNA:

The Editor presents his compliments to Mr Williamson & begs to inform him the enclosed was sent the Central News two days ago, & was treated as a joke.

9.a.m at The Street and Abberline examined the note before opening the main letter and began rubbing his chin as he read the text written in the striking red ink. As he absorbed it’s content slowing reading it over line by lurid line the door to the office burst open with Godley sporting a copy of The Star waving it. “Fred, have you seen this fucking rubbish, ‘Jack the bloody Ripper’ this bastard has had the arrogance to name himself. How the hell do the papers get this sort of stuff before us, the bloody Commissioner or someone should order them to always pass it to us, we decide what sort of evidential stuff should be disclosed, not bloody pencil neck journos.” For several seconds he courted no response from Abberline and was unaware of the fact from being preoccupied himself with thumbing through the paper for more sensationalised reporting following his initial outburst.

They looked up at each other at almost the same time, both having read the letter but one original and one the facsimile of it in the press.

“He’s an arrogant sick bastard this one, George, mark my words we are far from done. Now we’ve got to look for our next victim to have had her ears clipped.”

“Yeah but, Fred, you are assuming that it’s genuine. Who’s to say it’s not a crank or a journo trying to scare or sell more papers?”

“Would those people taunt us with ‘ha,ha’? Would those people ask for the letter to be kept back? No this is from the bastard doing this and we need to find him. He already states that he will kill again by the referral to ears. Catch the bloke who done this, and we catch our adversary ‘Jack’.” Godley stood nodding his head taking in what had been suggested to him as Abberline passed him the original letter for a look.

“George, this afternoon during the changeover from early to late shift and then tonight from late to nights we have to muster all the blokes at each parade and brief them on this and it’s consequences. We want the press there too, Mr Arnold and….”

Abberline was cut short by a young uniformed constable bursting in “Sir, we’ve got some mob outside calling themselves The Vigilance Committee headed by a fella called Lusk. They’re all waving copies of The Star around and screaming for you.” Abberline paused, looked at Godley and then spoke to the young constable.

“Well, you tell them I’m coming, and to quieten down before I get there or there will be trouble, they may start it, but we’ll finish it.” The lad scurried out whilst Abberline and Godley grabbed their suit jackets and made their way to the front of the police station passing Kerby and Spratling on route.