Whitechapel (58 page)

In the parade room they had heard his stifled scream and the initial thoughts were that it was another drunkard or madman in the custody office or cells. It wasn’t until Taffy Evans found the limp body of Parish in the doorway of the open incident room that anyone realised it was an occurance ‘in house’ where an officer was the victim. Fortunately, Dr Llewellyn was in the station tending a prisoner in the cells and he was immediately sent for to come and deal with Parish. He got him sat in the incident room washing his face with cool water which brought him round and cooled the burning in his eye. He drank some of the water to sooth his throat as Inspector Spratling arrived.

“He’ll never see with that again,” said Llewellyn as he examined Parish’s eye. It was deeply blood shot from the burning with the candle and it’s wax.

“What the hell has been going on here?” said Spratling scowling at all gathered with anger and confusion. In a broken voice Parish spoke.

“Someone has just been in to make sure there really is no link to Tumblety ever again.”

“What?” said a confused Spratling.

“The fucking bags gone, Guv.” Parish croaked in obvious pain.

“Oh, bloody great,” said Bill Thick arriving on scene. “Bloody great. Rob gets duffed up and the case papers relating to Tumblety get destroyed. We get to Tottenham to find fucking Chapman has give us the slip, and now the bags been nicked and he’s been blinded. Abberline’s going to fucking love all this.”

The question was, who was going to be sent to tell him, and when.

In the meantime Parish’s assailants had slipped out of The Street and into their waiting carriage; the driver cracked his crop and the horse lurched off heading for their offices in the Special Branch section at Scotland Yard. Having followed his direct orders, Dr Robert Anderson head of the C.I.D and often keen to bribe the lower paid ranks to do ‘jobs’ for him, would be pleased with the recovery they had made.

***

Sunday 2
nd
December 1888 and despite the strong desire to observe La Bretagne’s arrival in New York from upon deck Tumblety kept himself down in steerage in the hope that watchful eyes would be drawn to Weston now in his place. It was a hard decision as he had been away from his ‘homeland’ for many months’ and missed its security terribly; the opportunity to disappear due to the sheer size of the country. Even from as far down as he was he could hear the cheering on deck from the mixture of excited passengers, some wealthy and returning home from perhaps a European Grand Tour and for others it was their first sight of a new world full of opportunity and promise.

Bill Weston on the other hand was fully enjoying his new found comfortable life as Mr Frank Townsend despite having been confined mostly to his cabin for the latter part of his crossing. He stood up by the railings looking out over the lower promenade decks at the New York dockside building line, happy in the thought that he even had some comfortable lodgings to use on arrival, something that his normal life would never had provided. He was somewhat surprised as he casually gazed over the view to see a small official looking launch approach, especially since the ship had not yet been met by tugs, with people on board who seemed to have purpose and interest in coming aboard. As it got closer he could see that there was a scattering of men on board both in smart civilian clothes and others that appeared to be in police uniform. The ship seemed to be noticeably slowing too co-incidentally and he began to sense that this event must be linked to the mysterious American doctor.

The launch pulled along side and kept pace with La Bretagne and Weston could see a line being thrown down to it. A uniform policeman took hold of the line and strangely tied it around himself and was then lifted up from the launch and began to be hoisted upwards towards the lowest of the open decks. The launch pulled away and headed off towards the docks leaving their colleague to come aboard. Weston saw the policeman pulled over the railings but then lost sight of him as he was ushered inside. He was left wondering what was going on. Tumblety remained unaware of the event but quite secure below decks in steerage.

Officer Thomas Quinn was met by the captain, such was the importance of this policeman’s visit, and escorted him to the purser’s office to check over the passenger manifest. La Bretagne had been cabled the day before from the NYPD informing them of the need to come aboard prior to landing to check the manifest before anyone could leave. Quinn was handed the crucial list by the purser on the captain’s directions and began with the first class passengers: the most obvious class in which the curious Mr Townsend would be travelling. Although wanting to know that he was aboard it was also imperative that he did not get sense that he was being watched. It didn’t take long scanning the list to discover that a Mr Frank Townsend was on board and indeed a first class passenger.

“Are you staying with us until we dock, officer?” asked the captain.

“Yes, sir, I am. But I will stay out of sight. Watching this Mr Townsend is not my job.”

It was about another half an hour before the ship was on the quayside and the gang planks were down allowing people to slowly alight and make their way through to immigration. On the dockside watching those departing from first class were two of the plain clothes policemen who were on the launch and were also two of Thomas Byrne’s best detectives; Crowle and Hickey. They stood slightly back in the gathered crowd to avoid being seen at the front scrutinising the passengers as they disembarked. Weston now suspected from what he had observed on board and his liaison with the enigmatic Dr Townsend that he may either be arrested or followed as he stepped foot on the American dockside. A porter from La Bretagne carried his cases for him as he strolled nonchalantly along the gang plank expecting the worst of the two; arrest. If this was the case he would immediately declare to the police what had happened.

He passed along the lines of the cheering gathered crowd made up of some well wishers but mostly expectant relatives unaware of the two detectives keenly watching him.

“That’s the guy there, next to the porter with the glasses,” whispered Hickey to Crowle leaning slightly to speak into his colleague’s ear.

“Yeah, Goddamit, you’re right. Just let him move up a little way then I’ll shadow him from the crowd, you go and get the coach, bud,” replied Crowle. They already began to feel satisfied that there were not on some limey wild goose chase.

Crowle eased his way through the crowd as his colleague made straight to the city outside of the dock gates. Weston was blissfully unaware of being followed from the crowd, feeling relieved and comfortable that having now been on American soil for a couple of minutes and one hundred or so yards he hadn’t been deprived of his liberty. The porter humbly followed on behind waiting for, he hoped, a generous tip from his client. They then joined a queue that took them through the immigration control; however, it was a short specialist queue for those travelling from the upper class. Their check was somewhat cursory as it was taken as written that they harboured no diseases and, as moneyed people, no ill intent to the New World.

The other side of the immigration control was a new troop of porters as those from the ship were not allowed through. Weston handed the young man with glasses two dollars as he placed the cases down at the cusp of the dockside/city side in the most convenient place for one of the native porters to take over, which one readily did as the immigration official ushered Weston as Tumblety through with no check whatsoever. Crowle showed his detectives badge to another official to get through and maintain surveillance of his quarry.

Outside of the terminus, Hickey was ready with their transport as Weston emerged with his porter who took him to the horse drawn cab rank and loaded the cases onto the vehicle at the head of the line. Weston was forced to tip another porter begrudgingly with only a couple of one dollar bills and climbed aboard.

“Where to, sir?” politely asked the New York cab driver.

“East Tenth Street, please, driver.” Weston replied in a very satisfied manner. This unusual work Townsend asked him to do was going to be a ‘piece of cake.’

With the crack of the cab driver’s riding crop they set off into New York City with Crowle boarding a second cab with Hickey and then following together at a discreet distance.

Forty minutes later and Tumblety walked ashore as the crowds had subsided and walked straight up to the immigration control with no queue of hopefuls to hold him up. The exchange with Weston had been thorough all the way down to immigration papers and passports. He was unshaven with his moustache trimmed back from the norm dressed in Weston’s best working clothes and clutching a single case. His hat helped to disorientate the view of his face.

“Mr Weston,” said the immigration officer from behind his high desk, “what do you bring back to the United States?”

“A lot of fond memories of visiting the old countries, sir,” said Tumblety in character.

“What is your trade, Mr Weston?”

“I am a carpenter; I’ve worked in some of the fine hotels in London and in some of the Thames ship yards. I return to settle in a log cabin in the woods near Buffalo.” He spoke far from the truth.

“Anything in your case, sir?” asked the immigration official eyeing the case curiously.

“Oh, just a small treasure case of valuable gem stones, sir,” Tumblety replied heartily with a chuckle to try to break the normal ice of officialdom. The immigration official stared back impassively.

“If that be true, Mr Weston, watch your step with the portside gangs. Good day.” He stamped up the passport and handed it back to Tumblety who tipped his hat and smiled and walked casually back in to the United States of America.

He left the port for the Grand Central Station. Once there he enjoyed a coffee on the concourse having bought his train ticket. The entire metropolitan atmosphere of New York was very different to him than that of London. The smells, the noises and the accents all now made him feel very safe and at home. Abberline and his cronies would never find him with his decoy in place and whenever they discovered that it was Weston and not him it would be too late. Once his train left for Rochester, New Jersey no one would find him. He would be able to enjoy fine living again as a bachelor; he had no intention of being anything else now the voices had gone away, and tour the United States now he had regained his fortune and discover the places he had not as yet seen. That would help him decide on where he would eventually live out his days. He sipped from his steaming cup and enjoyed the scent of the freshly ground beans that emanated from the coffee vendor. He’d missed the taste of America and savoured it along with his new sense of freedom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
 

Druitt did not know what to do, or where to turn in the wake of the court decision of two Friday’s ago. He read the press coverage for the fifteenth time in the fortnight old Saturday edition of ‘The Times’ following the aborted court case.

AMERICAN DOCTOR FREED IN COURT

Following the collapse of the trial of Doctor Francis Tumblety this month, failed barrister but currently serving school master Montague John Druitt is sought under a police warrant for his part in fabricating the scandal against him….’

The article expanded beyond these points to further besmirch Druitt’s character and thereby ruin any semblance of reputation he had. He had been simply waiting for a knock on the door of his room from either the police or the headmaster of the school, both to remove him from the site. He decided to pre-empt this by dressing simply to walk out as if just to visit the local High Street on that first Saturday morning of the headline, leaving all his possessions in situe; there seemed little point in waiting for the inevitable disgrace and wanted to save himself from public humiliation. He made for Central London from Blackheath using his season ticket and then spent the next two weeks dwindling his savings by staying in a comfortable lodging house in Wapping close to The Steps. This found him wandering down to the river’s edge most days at least twice to ponder his future staring listlessly into the icy Thames. He had lost weight and was looking significantly gaunt living mainly on whiskey and tobacco, smoking his pipe most of the day and paying visits to a local opium den in Limehouse almost every other day; this only fuelled a delusional state in his mind that he was living no more than a nightmare.

He read the deteriorating copy of The Times at least once everyday seemingly in some psychologically misguided state as if believing that one day the news would be different and in his favour. Reality was now striking home that circumstances were set in history and were never to change and he was an object of public disgrace and humiliation. A mild depressive as a result of his latter schooling as a youth, he was now in a full blown manic depressive state.

Leaving Wapping around eleven o’clock he made for Tower Hill and the main thoroughfares where the reduced Sunday omnibus services ran to travel along to Charing Cross station. He was dressed in a now dishevelled navy blue suit with no tie and his wing collar shirt undone, scuffed leather brogues, face unshaven and hair un-brushed and he was smelling unwashed, he himself unaware of the reactions of those nearby as he boarded the bus and his odour became overpowering in a confined space. The conductor winced at his breath as he paid for his ticket and moved briskly away from him and back to the running board of the bus and the cool icy fresh air. Druitt stared wide eyed without focus out of the right hand window of the bus sightlessly watching the world go by with no recognition of it. Passengers jostled past him as the bus stopped along the way to Charing Cross knocking into his shoulder but it drew no reaction from him; he just swayed to one side and then rocked back to his upright seating position like some kind of circus puppet.

Like an automaton he alighted at the stop along the Embankment at the junction with Northumberland Avenue. He walked slowly along the pavement in the direction from which he caught the bus pulling a leather bound hip flask from his inside suit pocket as he did so. He unscrewed the stop and placed it up to his mouth throwing his head back with it and gulping heavily on the burning liquid inside; he had become accustomed to it’s strength so it’s hotness as it slid down his throat which was an effect he was almost impervious to. He emptied the contents of the flask which was enough combined with cold air to bring a lightness to his senses and a slight stagger to his walk.