Whitechapel (62 page)

***

Andrews and his ride found themselves following Townsend all the way to Grand Central Station where he saw the Ripper suspect pay off his cab driver and alight into the station.

“What now then, buddy?” asked the wagon driver tipping his hat back as he spoke. Andrews watched him enter the station and pulled out his wallet as he did so. He pulled out a couple of dollars and gave them to his temporary companion.

“Courtesy of Queen Victoria, my friend. Your service is appreciated.” Andrews then jumped down from the wagon.

“Anytime, Fella. You take care now. Maybe see you around,” replied the smiling American as he fingered the notes. Andrews nodded to him in a very polite English way and followed Townsend into the station by the same door.

The station in 1888 had been built some seventeen years previously by shipping and railroad magnate Cornelius Vanderbilt. Designed by John B Snook it cost $6.4 million to construct; it served four separate railroads each one containing their own waiting rooms, baggage and ticket facilities in the grand building. It sat between 42
nd
and 48
th
Streets, Lexington and Madison Avenues with a distinct gothic appearance over its three main floors, with additional levels below and above, within its European style towers that finished its magnificent façade.

Inside the station concourse was bustling with people from all classes, colours and religious backgrounds and within the few seconds that Andrews had temporarily lost sight of Townsend through the door into this crowd he had disappeared. He stopped in his tracks only yards into the building and frantically began to scan the environment desperately trying to spot his man and in so doing found himself frequently jostled by the passing throng. The crowds of people were so different to those that he had observed in London stations; there men dressed like cowboys, a phenomenon to which he had become accustomed from the American circus’s visiting England, women dressed not unlike those at home, a few black men and women, a sight he had as yet not seen commonly in London, native Indians, again familiar to him for the same reasons as the cowboys. There were soldiers, the odd policemen patrolling, well dressed men in bowler hats, cowboy hats, wide brimmed trilby hats and bare heads. He hoped that the overcoat and head gear that Townsend or Tumblety was wearing would stick out; at that point it didn’t. He began to walk in no specific direction wandering the wide crowded area around him whirling around to desperately try and pick up sight of his quarry somewhere; the action quickly began to disorientate him along with high volume of noise and the constant passing of humanity close to. Andrews very quickly reached the conclusion that he had lost him.

Depressed by losing sight of Townsend so soon he walked along the concourse to the natural centre of the station and decided to sit down and have a coffee, he knew tea would not be the norm and he wished to try to blend in just in case his man came back into sight. He noticed that on the next level up running around the edge of the main concourse and looking over it were small cafes where he could gain refreshment. This elevated view he felt would afford him a greater opportunity to possibly re-acquire sight of Townsend. He found the main set of stairs leading up there and made his way up against what seemed to be a heavy flow of people coming down towards him. The whole area suffered with a perpetual faint smell of coal burning smoke and steam from the ever transient trains.

Walking around the first level he found the perfect spot that over looked the entire concourse below and was opposite the main stairs he had just climbed. He hoped that this would offer the ideal view especially if Townsend decided to make use of the first level also. The coffee cost him a few cents and was served in a heavy ceramic cup which he carried to a table overlooking the area he was desperate to survey. He placed the steaming cup on the rough wooden table and sat down in the accompanying chair pulling himself forward, all the time keeping watch as he did so. The coffee was very hot and steamed in a discouraging fashion as a result; he was quite happy with his job in hand for it to take it’s time to cool. He busily scanned the area below looking for the astrakhan coat and the brown bowler hat that was being worn with it by Townsend, or Tumblety as he now kept saying in his mind. Sat down, he started to feel the cold that had sunk into him during the goods wagon ride and he instinctively wrapped his hands around the steaming cup. People came and went from the coffee kiosk he had used and all paid little or no heed to those passing around them; apart from him through force of habit as well as current duty.

He had been there nearly an hour and was onto a second cup of coffee and also a dry sandwich when he spotted a brown bowler hat on the first level. Amazingly the wearer had come from behind him and was now walking around the course of the first level to where he had himself come; heading it seemed for the stairs. Looking him up and down as he dropped the unpalatable sandwich onto the plate, he also wore an astrakhan coat and carried a cane. The height, build and gait all seemed to indicate it was the man he had lost earlier. Andrews stood and began following him from a safe distance within the crowds and as he observed the man turn and head down the stairs, although his head was down he could see that the individual was sporting a moustache; it was him.

He closed the distance between them as they reached the main concourse comfortable with the proximity finding the crowds were shielding him. He noticed that Tumblety, as he again reminded himself this man was, seemed totally unconscious of any surveillance. This he hoped this would be to his advantage. Tumblety headed for the same door by which he had entered, passed through it and approached the cab rank climbing aboard the first free one in the line. It pulled off quickly as Andrews jumped on board the next one and instructed the driver to ‘follow that cab, please.’

“So you’re a limey then, eh?” said the cab driver as they moved off. Andrews was keeping a keen eye on the cab ahead and seemed initially distant. He then spoke as he became happy they were keeping pace.

“Yes I am. And I don’t like that turn of phrase thank you. Please keep up with that cab in front and there’ll be an extra $3 for you in it.”

The financial encouragement was enough for the driver to accept his passenger’s curtness and get on with the task in hand. They were already heading along Lexington again and Andrews suspected back to East Tenth Street.

In the bay window of number 80 East Tenth Street Arthur Bentham sat in a comfortable dining chair behind the net curtains looking out upon the quiet residential street as he had done for the past few hours. He was struggling to stay awake with frequent ‘neck breaker’ nodding bringing him back to the world of the lucid. The kindly home owner plied him with good strong coffee almost every three quarters of an hour which he hoped was reducing the effect of the boredom and fatigue of his duties. It was as he began his next cup of coffee, steaming hot with its bitter chicory taste, when Tumblety’s cab arrived outside in front of number 79. He remained seated but leant forward to reduce the effect of the nets obscuring his vision. It was definitely their man alighting and paying the driver and then hurrying up the stoop and into the house. The cab pulled off and as it did so he noted a second one go past with Inspector Andrews on board. He too climbed down and then walked briskly into number 80 to reduce his time out in the street.

“Well, Guv? What did he do?” asked Bentham having now turned to split his attention between looking from the window and looking to Andrews coming into the room.

“Nothing. He went to Grand Station or whatever they call it; I lost sight of him temporarily in there. Did something and then left again.”

“Was that it?” Bentham seemed disappointed.

“Yes. That is bloody well it.” He sat down next to Bentham and they both stared silently out of the window.

Inside number 79 Weston, aware that he could still be under surveillance, took off his hat and top coat and then he too looked out of the window into the street. He could see nothing out of place but already began to feel constrained by the limitations of living some else’s life. He craved female company and tonight he knew that he could go out and buy some at a better quality than usual. ‘Hang it’ he thought. He would go out, maintain the outer façade, but enjoy the way he liked to live.

CHAPTER THIRTY
 

Chief Inspector Thomas Byrne head of the New York Police Department looked at the telegram he was receiving from Inspector Abberline from London with disbelief. Tumblety, who had been so adversely reported on in the press on both sides of the Atlantic, was suddenly having the case against him dropped. What the hell had happened? Before informing his men and the English detectives he would have to reply to Abberline’s communiqué, which read:

C/Inspector Byrne,

Apologies. The case against Dr T has to be dropped by orders of powers that be within the Metropolitan Police Force. And beyond. Please inform officers currently deployed and arriving to gain passage back to U.K at earliest chance.

Professional regards. F Abberline D/I

In it’s simplicity it was disturbing. ‘Powers within and beyond?’ What the hell did that mean? Before he would pull anyone off of the case he had to contact Abberline. He replied:

D/I Abberline,

Confused? Thought this was your man. Please expand on issue before I pull off surveillance.

T.B

Many more hours would pass until Byrne understood what was going on, which by the early evening gave the man under surveillance the chance to get out and about in the harbour side of Manhattan.

***

Abberline had decided to send the telegram from The Yard; having sent a telegram to Chief Inspector Byrne, as he couldn’t face returning to The Street and the faltering investigation as yet following the recent confrontations. He sat silently with Godley drinking a hot cup of tea looking out from the magnificent red and white brick building that had an aspect over the Thames affording some excellent views. He sat there staring out of the window towards Hungerford Bridge almost with the eyes of the blind not registering any of the movement across the bridge, along the river or the Embankment. Within his own mind he now doubted that he would ever bother seeing his thirty years out; if the right opportunity came along he would leave behind the high level corruption of the Force where it seemed his best efforts for the common good were of little consequence. How could an organisation be prepared to shelter someone guilty of such hideous crimes of utter cruelty and depravity? He occasionally looked at Godley to see his gaze also far away perhaps contemplating many of the same things or maybe just trying to get into Abberline’s mind. The silence was broken by a uniform sergeant coming up and coughing loudly to get the attention of the distant detectives. Godley looked round and spoke to him.

“Yes, Sergeant, what is please?” He noticed the sergeant had a piece of paper in his hand. The sergeant spoke and proffered the paper.

“For Inspector Abberline. From America.” He handed it over and walked off leaving them to read and digest it. They both looked at the short and direct telegram from Byrne. Abberline spoke first.

“Do we send him a message telling him the truth?”

“Well. What if he is one of them? Is it worth the risk?” replied Godley.

“If it comes from me, what else can I possible lose now? All I can do is write it in a bit of their code and hope for the best, mate.”

“All right, Fred. Your call lets go.”

They made for the telegram room and Abberline carefully sat at a desk and worded a message to pass to an operator for instant transmission. It took him some time recalling the events of the 1870s and many of the turn of phrases used. He then slipped the telex operator a few pound notes and held his index finger to his lips to indicate silence and secrecy. The message read:

A journeyman told me to check if you were an apprentice on the square or on your way to be a Knight of the East and the West or beyond. I will level with you, do you understand the Juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing? Do you understand the relevance of ‘Alpha’ in a written message? Prompt reply.

Abberline.

“Bugger me, Fred. What does that all that mean?” Godley was as confused as the telegram operator.

“I’ll tell you. ‘A journeyman’ was one of the original terms for a second degree mason. ‘On the square’ or ‘on the level’ refers to identifying if someone is a mason. An ‘apprentice’ is a first degree mason and a ‘knight of the east and the west’ is a 17
th
degree mason. You’ll remember that the term ‘Juwes’ is a collective for the three men who murdered Hiram Abiff in the original Temple of Solomon, and finally a capital ‘A’ can be hand written to look innocuous but will represent secretly the compass and set square, the famous tools of a masons trade. If he is a mason, well I’m in the shit. If he isn’t he’ll be very confused.”

“And so if he isn’t ‘on the square’?” asked Godley.

“We go to an outside post office and send a reply telling of a conspiracy and to get our men out before masons out there step in.” It was now mid evening in London. The day was passing by and the dejected Abberline had hardly even noticed.

***

It was early evening and Andrews and Bentham were still watching the street from their snug bay window when the front door of number 79 opened up again. Dressed in the same way as earlier in the day Tumblety emerged and again walked off in the direction of Lexington Avenue.

“Right. There is no one else in there to worry about, Arthur. Lets both go this time,” said a determined Andrews. They both left the building and followed Tumblety at fifty yards or so towards the bustling main thoroughfare towards the centre of town. He turned into Lexington and kept walking for quite sometime showing no interest in any form of transport.