Whitechapel (2 page)

Robert Ford, a Metropolitan Police Constable with four years service. One of the new lads still at ‘The Street,’ the name by which Commercial Street Police Station was known by those who worked there and an officer troubled by the murder earlier in the month of prostitute Martha Tabram. He had known her in passing as he did most of the women who frequent the streets for work as indeed he did himself as a beat constable. An inoffensive woman, why had she been so brutally murdered?

Robert, being only twenty-five years old and fit by the standards of the day as a result of not drinking heavily or smoking and trying to eat regularly around shifts, pulled on his uniform, his unforgiving boots and took hold of his beat duty helmet and made for the door of his room. Tripping over Boson the brindle coloured English Bull Terrier belonging to Mrs Williams, his landlady, and receiving a growl and an attempted nip too close for comfort to his left ankle, he entered the street and ran north along Bakers Row towards Bethnal Green Road.

There were still many cabs around with their tired and forlorn looking horses, a few drunks and the market traders were now out in force along Bethnal Green Road. Many of them knew young Robert as a local police constable or ‘copper’ and shouted typical East End encouragement to him along his route.

“Afternoon, Bobby boy, late shift today?” or “What do coppers say about being up early and not getting caught out?”

The air carried the curious 19th century East End stench, a mixture of fresh and rotten vegetables, flowers and meat all of which blended with the smell of the less than sanitary local streets.

His heart now pumping hard after over a half a mile of running he was at the junction with Wheler Street, just a left turn and a two hundred yard dash to the front door of the ‘nick’. Born and bred around the streets which he now patrolled, he knew them like the back of his hands from the days when he was a noted teenage pugilist. As a profession he knew that it would either kill him or leave him a punch drunk destitute and so he had ‘thrown in the towel’ early to make a proper lawful life for himself. The blisters were rubbing red raw inside of his boots and beads of perspiration were now rolling down his face on this warm August morning. Just as he got to the junction with Commercial Street he fell, heavily, winding himself and grazing his hands. His helmet rolled dangerously close to the wheels of a ‘hansom’ or cab and he could hear female laughter to his right. Looking over he saw two of the local girls now giggling at his predicament. It was Mary ‘Polly’ Nichols and the unusually attractive Mary Kelly. Nichols was a typical haggard looking forty-three year old prostitute whilst Kelly, relatively new to the area by comparison, was an attractive auburn haired Irish girl of about twenty-five who Robert knew well in passing and always seemed to greet him with a lovely smile and wink. In her beautifully rounded Limerick accent she spoke to Robert.

“Mind your step, constable, are you in a rush or falling for me?” Robert looked up at her red faced and smiled. If only she knew. Despite the fact she was a prostitute Robert admired her from afar. She was the same age as him and had been to France with an artist and seemed so much more sophisticated than her profession belied. She charmed, fascinated and bewitched him. He had spent many evenings chatting with Mary outside of The Britannia or The Ten Bells pubs in Spitalfields about life and ambitions, and was on the verge of plucking up the courage to ask her for a drink together one evening, away from either of their professional capacities. Too early in the day for him to think of a witty reply he grabbed his helmet and lunged for the doors of the nick.

With a few minutes at least to spare before parade he went into the constables toilets to check his appearance. He brushed the dirt by hand from his helmet, did up his tunic and straightened his whistle chain. Checking his pockets he had his note book, truncheon, china graph pencil and of course his whistle. Finally looking in the mirror, damn it! He hadn’t shaved. Sergeant Kerby the duty sergeant taking parade would go mad. He would have to pull the peak of his helmet down low and keep his head down.

The shout came up “Get on parade!” and a sea of constables washed through the corridors bumping and jostling each other, exchanging both good humoured and miserable banter as they burst into the parade room and stood to in front of the afore mentioned Sergeant Kerby and Inspector Spratling. Before reading through the standing orders, the collator’s notices and the Police Gazette, the men were inspected by Spratling, not Kerby. Robert almost physically breathed a sigh of relief as he knew that Spratling was generally very cursory with his examination of the assembled officers’ appearances.

As the inspector passed along the rank of twelve men, Robert could see Kerby glance across at him, but not at his shave shadow but at his legs. Looking down Robert then noticed he had a torn knee on his left trouser leg, obviously from his earlier fall. Spratling then confronted him looking him up and down.

“New style summer trousers, son? Allow a bit of a breeze in do they?” sneered Spratling.

“No, sir. Had a fall outside. Sorry.”

“Get them sorted before you represent the Queen out on the street.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kerby then addressed the constables with the relevant information for the day. This took the form of highlighting areas of recent crime increase for attention, local wanted thieves to look for and apprehend any changes in practices in policing matters and new high profile criminal personalities seen on the ‘ground’.

“So, a murder this month of one of the ladies of the night. One Martha Tabrum, thirty-nine years old of George Street, Spitalfields. No apparent reasoning, she was found slain in George Yard in the early hours of the 7th August having last been seen with a Grenadier Guardsman. She was found with numerous stab wounds, possibly from a bayonet. I want you all to pay attention to any squaddies in the area.

“Next item, Willy Brannigan has been seen on the ground and he is well known as a burglar. Special attention to areas with high value property, and yes, I know they are few and far between here, as he is wanted in connection with a string of West End crimes.”

Kerby rambled on in Robert’s mind with some more Police Gazette bulletins whilst he drifted off thinking about the murder of Martha Tabrum. He hoped that the detective branch cracked the case soon to keep the local people placated. The East End was an area of massive social deprivation with most of the people there believing that the powers that be cared nothing for it as a region of London, and felt it was perceived as a human dumping ground. He then paid attention to Kerby once more as he continued.

“The Polish-Jew confidence trickster and thief Michael Ostrog is back in town along with Aaron Kosminski another of the same persuasion. Both of ‘em are known for violence on occasions and bizarre public behaviour, so look out. Ostrog is also wanted to failing to answer to bail, so if you see him, swift him. He’s easy to spot, he normally wear’s a cleric’s type suit and be careful he often carries a knife, thinks he’s a surgeon apparently used to practice with the Russian army ‘til he allegedly killed some Russian in a duel. Now Kosminski, on the other hand, is as bloody mad as you like hairdresser who’s not adverse to eating food out of the gutter, is by all accounts a self abuser, or to you lot a ‘wanker’ which has apparently fuelled a hatred of women.” There was a unanimous bought of laughter following Kerby’s translation of ‘self abuser’ amongst the constables.

“All right, settle down,” said Spratling, “Carry on please, Sergeant.”

“A Dr M J Druitt has been seen by the river down at Wapping Steps recently staring blankly at the water. He’s been moved on a couple of times by some of the lads and seems very reasonable but distant, lets see if any further types of behaviour develop. Outside of that he’s seen knocking about with a military type on our ground here. In relation to the Tabrum murder, no description of a suspect but just to emphasise that her last client she was seen with was maybe a guardsman. Is there a uniform connection?” With typical police sarcasm and cynicism Kerby added, “Narrows it down to about 7000 suspects,” bringing another laugh and a smile to the sombre early morning proceedings. “Time for a cup of tea, lads, before you go out then,” were Kerby’s parting words.

The men all started filing out of the parade room and as they did so Kerby grabbed Robert’s arm. “And by the way, boy, get a bleedin’ shave as well as sorting out your trousers or it’ll be a reprimand in your pocket book.”

“Yes, sarg, sorry,” replied Robert. He then shuffled off with the rest of them to have a welcome cup of tea and find a needle and cotton. He looked for Liz the cleaning lady at the nick who although unreliable and likely to lose her job as a result of too much drunkenness, had a heart of gold. Robert thought that she would probably be able to help sort out his trousers. Nick-named ‘Long Liz,’ Elizabeth Stride was known to be a part time local prostitute too.

Robert found Liz in the basement just swilling out a dirty bucket by a sink and coughing loudly. Although plain to look at now at forty-five, she had faired better than most of the others of her age and probably up to ten years previously had been an attractive woman with good facial bone structure and even now a slim physique.

“Liz, you got any black cotton and a needle, love?” asked Robert in his innocent way. The motherly Liz looked him up and down seeing the tear in his trousers and smiled.

“Do you want me to stitch it for you too, little wounded soldier?” What did she mean? He looked at his leg again and could see how red raw it was from a nasty graze taking off a large piece of skin.

“Liz, you are an angel.”

“Well get ‘em off then, boy, can’t do’em in place, not unless you want wear then permanently,”

Robert looked at her gulped and decided the embarrassment would be worth it.

He took his trousers off much to her delight, with Liz laughing and shouting ‘and the rest!’ as he handed them over to her.

Robert decided to engage her in a bit of conversation, “Liz, did you know Martha?”

“No, darling,” she replied “but I understand she was someone on the game, all a bit worrying really a killer being out there. Still could be hit by one of them bleedin’ horse drawn bus’s tomorrow.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” Robert wondered if he would be so philosophical later in life. “Liz, why do you do what you do away from here?”

The tall fair haired woman paused for a moment and then spoke with a hint of shame avoiding any eye contact.

“Money. That’s all. I’ve got to live and there is little else I can do.” Robert pondered the answer and realised that he was one of the more fortunate locals to have found a career for himself. Five minutes later an his trousers were done, he pulled them on quickly, went up to Liz and kissed her on the cheek and whispered “Thanks,” into her ear and ran off to the mess room to get a cup of tea with the lads on his ‘relief’ or shift.

The banter between him and his mates began as soon as he entered the room, with suggestions readily being made about his whereabouts for the last five minutes and how good he must be with a needle and cotton.

“Oi, Bobby boy, I hope you were careful with that needle and didn’t feel a prick?” Came the smug comment from Derek ‘Del boy’ Lake, actually a close friend of Robert’s from the Police Training School of Peel House. Del boy was twenty-five and a resident originally of South London, unlike Robert born in the East. A larger than life character always with something to say, they had enjoyed many good days walking the streets of Whitechapel together.

“Well then, boyo, that old tart stitch you up good and proper did she?”

“She is not just an old tart, and besides, is that the best you can come up with then, Taffy?” Robert replied scornfully to the last comment from Taffy Williams an older constable on the relief, some forty years old with lots of service in Central London and now in the East End. He resembled a typical Victorian Bobby, portly with a ruddy complexion, a big bushy moustache and mutton chop sideburns. “Listen, pal, I don’t have to be funny, just nasty. I’ve got more days leave than you’ve got in this job.”

Robert’s real feelings were to tell Taffy exactly what he was, a nasty, rude, uncaring has-been. Unfortunately, thought Robert, he would probably retaliate with more spiteful abuse. He sat down with Del to enjoy the hot steaming tea pushed in front of him on the table.

“Well then, son,” began Del, “we’re both posted number two beat together, fancy strolling and enjoying a bit of lively good-natured company?” Robert looked pensive for a minute, scratched his head and then replied with mocking authority and experience.

“Yeah, okay. Come with me, son and watch and learn!” They laughed heartily at his comment, finished slurping their tea, donned their helmets and headed for the front door of the nick.

It was now 6.35.a.m. Commercial Street was bustling with activity, cabs travelling up and down taking the bankers and city gents into town, trams full of the regular work force being pulled along by strong brawny horses and the market traders and newspaper vendors shouting as everyone passed by. Few, if any, of the ladies of the night were now to be seen on the streets, having made their money they had found lodgings and a bed to sleep off the night’s excesses of vile and rough sex subdued by alcohol.

Robert and Del turned right from the nick and headed south-east towards The Ten Bells public house and Spitalfields Flower Market. The aroma of the air was quite bizarre as before, but this time also with a stronger smell of fresh flowers as they neared Spitalfields, horse deposits from all the various forms of transport and the smell of human refuse decaying from some of the local slums all running east from Commercial Street.

However, it is a time of great social upheaval due to the appalling condition of the East End slums, the lawlessness of the area at times and the rise in Irish or ‘Fenian’ terrorism in London. Despite this it is still a time when those passing constables patrolling in the street acknowledge their presence and wish them a good day. One such person accustomed to greeting ‘The Law’ was Ralph a grubby street urchin of a paper boy.