Whitechapel (29 page)

Tumblety passed the junction with Middlesex Street and ahead he thought he made out the silhouettes of a group of men not more than a hundred yards away. They were walking away from him and by their mode of head dress he guessed them to be local Jewish workers. As he had committed past the junction of Middlesex Street now closing on Goulston Street they must have heard his foot steps as two out of the three turned. Tumblety was directly under a lamp, highlighting the glistening blood on his top coat and bag. One of them shouted.

“You, what’s with you? Wait, fellow. Why are you shiny?”

‘Damn! My goose could be cooked,’ he thought, and he ducked into Goulston Street and ran hard to make some ground on them but began tiring quickly. He had to find somewhere to hide. He made it quite some distance along before he heard another shout from behind; they had now got into the same street. He had got far enough ahead that they probably would not be able to gauge which building he entered to try to lose them. He chose 108-119 Wentworth Model Dwellings and sheltered below a stairwell breathing very hard and sweating profusely from all his physical exertion. He could then hear them talking. They had decided to split up and search the area between them. This would be a real problem because even if not found he would have to be very cautious timing his departure. ‘Bastards, if it wasn’t enough with the cops on my ass.’ He had view of the doorway and saw the silhouette of a figure, one of the Jews, enter. He desperately subdued his breathing but felt his heart beat right through his head, so loud he thought it seemed as if others would be able to hear it and it’s beat would give him away and he would be discovered.

His pursuer failed to find him and departed with a very scant search. Lying on the floor he found some sticks of chalk that local children must have left from marking out a ‘hops scotch’ court. He’d fix both the Jews, for the nights problems they had caused him, and the police with another insulting distraction, this time not by post but by hand on the buildings wall. He had a good knowledge of Freemasonry from a brief involvement in America before his public humiliation in New Brunswick when they failed to stand by him. He knew well the story of Jubelo, Jubelum and Jubela, the ‘Juwes’ and the crime they committed in the Temple of Solomon. His lodge had disowned him following the death of his patient Mr Podmore and were instrumental in discrediting him. His quick thinking vindictive mind saw another way of distracting attention from himself.

As he stood the piece of apron he had wiped his hands on dropped from his pocket to the floor and he squared up to the corridor wall to write. It didn’t take him long. ‘That should confuse the trail for sometime’ he thought. His deliberate spelling of one word would leave intellectuals and masons wondering if this was ritualistic and laymen simply thinking that the author was slightly illiterate, especially with the double negative. The Jews had made his night difficult in so many ways, and he hadn’t found sanctuary yet. He stepped back to see his completed message:

THE JUWES ARE THE

MEN THAT WILL

NOT BE BLAMED

FOR NOTHING

The deliberate spelling of ‘Juwes’ would potentially besmirch two groups for which he felt hostility. Now he had to make good his escape. He emerged back into Goulston Street slowly and cautiously and made his way north to avoid contact with the three Jews in case they had not yet resumed their own business. His route towards the sanctuary of Batty Street took him into Wentworth Street, the location during the day of the busy ‘Petticoat Lane market’ which then led across Commercial Street as he continued towards Brick Lane and Osborn Street. Ever vigilant he had to ensure he passed no one or did it at a massive distance so they could not see his shiny blood stained clothes. There was no point ditching his outer garments as it had soaked through to his white shirt which was then even more obvious to onlookers. His escape route took him past St Mary’s Church and into Church Lane the scene of a previous encounter which then spat him out close to safety, or so he believed, into Commercial Road. About to turn left and beginning to let his guard down Batty Street was only three roads up on the right.

Appearing in Commercial Road he turned only fifteen feet from an approaching constable. He quickly ducked back into Church Lane and walked off briskly, but he had been seen.

“Oi, you come here, I need a word.” The voice bellowed to him from behind. He briskly strolled a few more feet into the darkness of the poorly lit Church Lane before stopping to confront his potential assailant. With his back turned to the constable he got a knife to hand ready to use to make good his escape. As he heard the foot steps close and another question directed at him he turned ready to strike.

“When I say stop, I want a word, mister, I bloody mean it. Now….” His words were cut short as the Listern knife flashed rapidly across in front of him deep into his face slicing across his left cheek, his mouth and into his right cheek. The attack opened up his face almost literally ear to ear leaving a massive open wound that including his mouth was nearly ten inches across. He helplessly grabbed his face as the blood poured over his hands and he couldn’t form his lips to issue a scream or a cry for help. He fell to his knees helplessly in front of Tumblety who then pushed the kneeling constable over leaving him fighting for breath on the cold pavement, desperately trying to call for assistance. He ran back up to Commercial Road and peered round the corner looking east and west to see if he could continue his escape. It appeared clear so he ran across the road still sweating profusely and continued east towards his safe haven. As he neared Gowers Walk he could see two blocks up a mass of police around the top end of Berner Street with Batty Street being only just beyond; but it might as well be on another continent with all that police presence and his overall bloodied condition. He had to get there; he couldn’t turn up at the Ritz in this state. He had to find a way round.

He felt a hand on his shoulder as he stood using the building line for some cover from view looking east. He whirled round to see another cop and without time to draw his knife again and noting the officer with his truncheon in hand he punched out as hard as he could at the man’s windpipe. He fell like a rag doll as Tumblety then kicked him in the jaw as hard as he could and then took his truncheon about to strike again but pausing with a sudden thought.

The officer lying in front of his feet was a sergeant drafted in with some of his subordinates from another division on the outskirts of East London. He was actually unconscious as a result of the blow he had received and looking at him Tumblety noticed that he was of a very similar build to him. He bodily dragged him with great effort and nearing exhaustion deep into Gowers Walk out of sight to execute his plan. He began shedding all of his own top clothes throwing them in a pile and as soon as he had discarded them all on the cobbles he set to work with stripping the sergeant of his uniform. He was out cold and it was difficult to manoeuvre his dead weight. Once stripped of his uniform he stood bent double for a minute or so trying to get his breath listening intently for footsteps or sign of police or anyone nearing him. Having got his breath with only the sound of the gathering crowd from Berner Street in the distance, the occasional dog bark or carriage passing on the main road, he managed to struggle into the uniform complete with helmet and truncheon. He bundled up his own clothes and headed south in Gowers Walk finding a large tin dustbin to stuff them in. Leaving the lid off he lit a match and got them burning and hid his bag deep in a alcove between buildings further down and would fetch it back in the morning. He stood ensuring the fire took hold and then made his way through an alley into Back Church Lane to then try to wend his way into the bottom end of Batty Street via Ellen Street and Providence Street which would lead directly to it.

Officers from neighbouring districts had been drafted in, a fact he knew from the newspaper reporting, so provided he could carry off a vague anglicised accent he should make it home almost incident free now. The streets he had to enter to get home to number 22 were now teeming with local people disturbed by the police that were also frequenting them creating noise searching the locale in depth. He hoped it wouldn’t extend to Gowers Walk and so lose his bag. As he walked along the street a young officer addressed him, breaking away from his search.

“Here, sarge, how far out is this searching supposed to extend?” enquired a young constable of him with others turning to listen in Providence Street. He paused and then coughed preparing to give it his best shot at an English accent. He was fortunate to have travelled extensively and studied the various dialects and accents he had encountered.

“Just as far as two streets parallel, either side.” There was silence the officers around all looked at each other. He felt uncomfortable.

“All right, ta, sarge.” They all resumed what they were doing, moving dustbins, checking doors and dark corners while he casually wandered on within spitting distance of his lodgings.

He turned into Batty Street to see the road buzzing with activity; some residents on the streets gossiping and making their own conclusions as to what had happened, but mainly police pacing the street looking for clues. Strolling towards him was an inspector, unknown to Tumblety it was John Spratling who had been in on the case from the start. He needed to ensure that he did not engage with this man in any conversation so he deliberately crossed the road and seized upon an opportunity to berate a young looking constable searching around some rubbish piled up in the street.

“What are you doing, man?” demanded the would-be sergeant in an ever more convincing English accent. The young constable stopped what he was doing and looked Tumblety up and down noting his outer district collar number, a more rural district further out to the east.

“With respect, sarge, you not being a local bloke and therefore only providing patrols, what the fuck is it to you?” Inter-district rivalry and cynicism would be something Tumblety knew nothing about. He stood open mouthed aghast that a sergeant could be spoken to like this as the young but obviously opinionated and tenacious constable stared back at him.

“Well, sarge, what you got to say to that? Looking for fucking clues ain’t I?” Tumblety looked round nervously and shaken by the response. Fortunately for him the inspector had now passed by so he cleared his throat stared back at the constable simply scowling and pointing a finger to him and strolled off towards number 22.

“Fucking country district wankers.” The constable resumed his searching.

Tumblety got to 22 and stood with his back to the door looking up and down before putting his key in and entering when he felt no one was watching. He was lucky no one had seen him go in. He dashed to his room and quickly got the uniform off and stuffed it under the bed. He ripped his shirt off which was still blood stained and threw it in the sink and ran cold water onto it. He then watched the activities outside cautiously from his window and began to calm himself down having reached a reasonable safe haven. Had the police called yet, however, to speak to all the residents? He hadn’t seen Mrs Long as he’d come in which meant he had no inclination of whether there had been any enquires made of the house. He would have to sit and wait. He rang the shirt out and threw it under the bed joining the uniform and then began to wash to wipe away any possible clues for if the law came calling. Having cleaned himself up and hidden incriminating evidence for now, he lay down on his cheap bed began to relax and waited for sleep to arrive to recharge his now exhausted constitution.

***

Abberline wasn’t sure of where to go first having again had a cab turn up this time in the early hours at his home to bring him urgently into work. By the reports he was being given by Murphy and Parish who had both come to fetch him it seemed prudent to attend Mitre Square first owing to its ferocity. What he couldn’t believe was that the killer had struck twice in one night, or had he? With the marked difference between the two attacks he felt convinced of two possibilities; perhaps the killer had been disturbed at Berner Street or they were two completely unrelated incidents. One other motivation had driven Abberline to go to Mitre Square first; the City Police Commissioner was in attendance with another high ranking City officer so it would only be good protocol for the investigating officer at ground level on the Metropolitan District to attend, liaise and advise.

3.a.m Mitre Square had been completely closed off to any traffic either vehicular or pedestrian on the orders of Major Smith with constables from the City keeping a cordon closed around the murder scene and others performing roving patrols within a half mile radius. Abberline entered the square via Dukes Passage to see a crowd gathered on the opposite side of the square to him who appeared to be looking at or working around something on the floor. He walked over and as he got closer he recognised Major Smith present, several other ranking City officers who Abberline did not know and Dr F Gordon Brown the City’s divisional surgeon. Brown was on his knees next to the corpse. In the light and at his initial distance Abberline gained no grasp of the horrific injuries she had sustained. The full extent of the savagery of the attack hit the detective inspector as he was about to engage Major Smith in conversation and he couldn’t help but express his shock at it.

“Jesus Christ. The fucking bastard. Sorry, Commissioner, good morning, sir”

“Morning, Abberline. Quite understandable given the nature of the attack, worse than the others, eh?”

“Yes, sir, considerably so. I understand that the other one has only had her throat cut.”

“Quite so, Abberline. So where do we go from here then?”

“Well, sir, once the doctor has done his initial examination here perhaps she’ll go to the local mortuary….” Smith cut in over Abberline.

“Golden Lane, then.” Not ideal for Abberline as it was on the North West side of the City’s patch, past the area known as the Barbican.