Authors: Bryan Lightbody
Meanwhile Abberline and Godley had arrived at the Golden Lane Mortuary in time to speak to Dr Gordon Brown who had completed his post mortem on Cathy Eddowes.
“Hello, Doc, mind if we take a quick look before we speak, sir”
“Help yourself, Inspector, but as you know it’s not a pretty sight, especially now I’ve finished,” said Brown wiping his hands having just washed them. They walked through to the examination table and threw back the cover over her body. The sight and the smell never got any better. Just like an abattoir or a butcher’s shop, very cold with the scent of death and an air of surrealism not quite being able to come to terms with seeing human bodies cut wide open and empty inside like a hanging beef carcass. They both knew they would have to discuss the internal wounds in depth with Brown but could readily inspect the face, so prominently discussed with Lees and taunted about in the last Ripper letter.
Sure enough there on Eddowes’ face were what looked like upturned ‘V’s on her cheeks and very similar cuts to her eyelids exactly as Lees had described, but also and most alarmingly the top parts of her ears were missing. Godley was outraged by the killer’s cruel actions.
“Fuck it, Fred, fuck it! I can’t believe he’s fucking done IT!”
“I….” Abberline was shaking his head in disbelief, “I can’t believe it me self. What is this bastard’s game?”
“Quite obviously sick and ritualistic,” said Brown.
“Doc, how do we stop man like this? How do we find him?”
“Inspector, he will find you. He will go too far in his efforts, take too long and expose himself. Each crime is worse than the one before so he has become more depraved. He will find you through his own failings.” Abberline considered the doctor’s words very carefully and spoke.
“I think I follow. Doctor, what were the other injuries, and is anything missing?”
“Well, the wound to the throat was almost standard, dare I say such a thing, for these crimes; down to the bone severing through all the major soft tissue and arteries. You’ve seen the extreme facial mutilations to the eyes, nose cheeks and ears especially, driven by what I don’t know. The torso, well the front was laid open from the breast bone to the pubic area and from there it diverted to the right carrying on past the vagina to just past the rectum, the extent of this cut served no purpose for what was taken or damaged. The intestines had been largely detached and about two feet of the colon had been cut away. The left kidney had been removed and the left renal artery cut through and the care that this operation was done with indicated anatomical knowledge to me. The lining of the uterus was cut through and most of the womb along with that kidney had been removed. That is a very abridged version of what I found on Sunday, you’ll have come to the inquest, today was just to confirm my findings. You do realise that no one knows these murders are taking place as the cut to the throat is so quick and deep that it gives no opportunity for the victim to cry out, Inspector?”
Abberline paused before replying, that notion had not occurred to him before and it did answer a lot of questions regarding the lack of witnesses.
“Doctor, do you believe that the killer has medical knowledge?”
“Inspector, basic mammalian anatomical knowledge is all that is required. One could get this from text books not just as a result of being within the medical profession. Don’t make such suggestions in front of the coroner, although you are of course aware from the Chapman inquest that he believes there maybe a link between these murders and some American doctor offering money for specimens of uterus in London?”
“What do you know of that story, Doctor?” asked Godley, having not been present at the Chapman inquest, but knowing Abberline had been. Was his friend and colleague back into the habit of drinking, effecting him in simplest ways having not yet shared this information with him?
“Sergeant, all I know of it is this; there is a chap here who boasts of a collection of such viscera. I have never met him and only know of him through a friend in the United States who had written to me for advice regarding a friend of his who had this hideous collection and ranted on about a hatred of women. He wanted to know if he should take any action, obviously concerned about how his friend obtained and maintained such a collection. By the time I responded by letter he had sent me a telegram stating his friend had travelled to England.”
“Who is your friend? More importantly, who is this other individual?”
“Well, he wouldn’t name him through a sense of discretion, but the third party is a lawyer called Colonel C.A Dunham.”
“Thank you, Doctor, we shall be in touch,” said Abberline turning on his heels and leaving the mortuary with no word to Godley who nodded to Brown and followed Abberline out.
Outside he spoke to his friend concerned about the information he had heard discussed at the Chapman inquest.
“Fred, did you know that stuff about the American Doctor then?”
“George, with three murders having taken place at that point and only two with mutilations; I didn’t give it a lot of credence. But, following this weekends events we must pursue it as a serious line.”
“Sorry, mate a fair point. But you could have told me.”
They were both beginning to feel a massive amount of pressure weighing on them following the ‘double event’. They walked into Golden Lane which then led them into the main thoroughfare of Old Street where Godley waved down a smart looking cab.
“Gentlemen, where to,” said the driver looking at Godley.
“Commercial Street nick please, driver.” The driver then looked at Abberline, instantly recognising him.
“Mr Abberline, ain’t it?” He said as the police inspector entered the cab.
“Yes, it is. And you might be?”
“John Netley, carriage driver. I am actually just helping a mate me self today. Normally I’m driving a carriage, often for the Royal Mews you know.”
“Really, how do you know me then?”
“Your famous, guv’nor, aren’t ya. You’re the bloke who’s going to catch Jack the Ripper. I could help you know.”
“Oh, yeah,” sighed Abberline cynically, looking at Godley, “How’s that then?”
“Well, I’ve done a bit of training to be a doctor me self, see. I drive a carriage, I could come round with you, driving you like, and then help with the pest mortem and help with motive ideas and things, see.”
“You mean post mortem, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah. I know all about how the body works.”
“I’ll bet you do. Tell you what, when you drop us off, give me your card and we may well think about it,” suggested Abberline.
“Yeah, lovely, I’ll do that, ta.”
Godley and Abberline looked at each other with obvious cynicism and watched the world go by on the rest of their journey while Netley gabbled on about which surgeons he had carried and who was who in the Royal family. After a while they did listen intently just to see if there was any value in his conversation.
Wednesday 9
th
October 11.a.m; Tumblety was very pleased with himself despite sporting a sling for his damaged arm, he left Cootes Bank in The Strand having secured a £2000 loan for himself all of which he had as cash in a leather brief case. He returned to the Ritz immediately by cab having been absent from there for a week and settled his outstanding bill, much to the satisfaction of the management. An extra bribe ensured they disposed of all traces of his stay. He had kept the cab on outside driven by a man who appeared very keen to please especially when he had asked Tumblety about his profession. Named Netley, he boasted of his own medical prowess and how he had influence with the Royal family, the medical profession an even the police. This man, kept within his employ for a small retainer could be a valuable asset.
An hour later arriving at Batty Street he asked Netley to stop in Commercial Road while he walked down to attend to his business.
Since his return injured to the lodgings he had persistently been eyed with suspicion by Mrs Long and now felt it was time to make good a move to elsewhere with his new funds. He opened the door to be immediately confronted by his irritating land lady.
“Moving out yet, are you, mister?”
“Actually, Mrs Long, I am which will be good news for you and great news for me.”
“Listen, I’ve spoken to my friend Mrs Diemschutz about you. She says I should have called the coppers by now. She says a foreign bleeder like you is probably Jack the Ripper, specially with that blood stained shirt. What you got to say to that then, eh?” He approached her, arm in sling, but still in a menacing fashion which made her cower and swallow hard, lowering her head.
“Well I’ll tell you this. If was Jack the Ripper do you think I’d let you live for over a week since you first pestered me about my laundry, incidentally soiled innocently, eh?” She paused before replying, with his 5’11” frame now towering over her.
“S’pose not, really. Ya gonna pay me ain’t you?” She held her breath as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out some crisp fresh English banknotes for her, guessing a healthy bribe would buy her silence.
“Have you still got my shirt?”
“Nah, couldn’t get it clean again. Chucked it.”
“Will that cover my arrears, Mrs Long?”
“Er, yes, sir, very much.”
“Good,” he then held the handle of his cane up to the side of her face. “Excellent in fact. Now don’t ever threaten me in anyway again. I promise I’d be back for you before you’d find they get to me, you piece of East End crap.”
She sobbed with fear as he collected all his belongings and made his way from the house, throwing her the key and wishing her a ‘good day, mam’. When he was gone it took her some time to regain her composure. The traces of the mysterious lodger would lie heavy on her mind for sometime. She retired to her kitchen and began sorting through a pile of dirty bed clothes, amongst which she knew full well she had thrown the shirt.
***
Regents Park 1.p.m and a prestigious gathering was taking place of police and home office staff and dignitaries. So much pressure was mounting on the establishment action had to be taken to try to employ new methods to help in detection and bring about a swift resolution to the Ripper case. To this end a trial of bloodhounds was taking place being show cased by the Commissioner himself Sir Charles Warren in the hope that should another murder take place they could be brought in to follow off a fresh scent and catch the killer. Barnaby and Burgho had been brought to London by their noted breeder Mr Brough from Scarborough and he stood proudly with them slightly separate from the main crowd where Sir Charles was preparing a scent trail for them to attempt. Superintendent Arnold stood within the crowd along with Major Henry Smith, Henry Matthews the Home Secretary, Dr Robert Anderson the head of the Metropolitan C.I.D and a dozen other police inspectors, sergeants and civil servants. The press too had been allowed to gather on a minimal basis to report the event to bring back some public confidence and highlight the efforts being made in the hunt for Jack the Ripper. Will Bates attended as reporter for The Star being prepared with great enthusiasm for another bumbling police failure. The afternoon’s weather was closing in on a particularly dark and cloudy basis and a mist or light fog was beginning to rise.
The first hour was spent with Sir Charles initially setting simplistic scent trails. Meat to be traced by the dogs, then clothing and then a person, with the dogs being given a scent of their clothing as a lure to commence. Bates looked on cynically watching these somewhat simplistic tests before the entire crowd was offered tea and cake at the open air theatre café within the Queen Mary’s Gardens part of the park within the inner circle. The general socialising and back slapping session of their tests so far was taking sometime and the increasingly bored Bates decided to tackle Superintendent Arnold on the subject.
“Tell me, sir, how do you propose to catch the killer with these dogs then, eh?” He got his note book ready to record the interview.
“Well, Mr Bates, we shall take the dogs to any scene at the earliest possible opportunity and allow them to detect a scent from the victim or the general immediate area of the crime, be it murder or assault and then follow it off accordingly. Sir Charles with his varied career experience in the past and having observed the use of these hounds ensures us that it is the most efficient course of action.”
“I see. And do you believe him?”
“Of course I do! Sir Charles has taken on the duties of Commissioner at one of the most difficult times in London. Fenian terror activity, social unrest in the East End and now the murders, if a man who is tackling all these issues says the dogs are our best hope, then I believe him.”
“But the last Fenian attack was the year before he became Commissioner, can’t credit him with that.”
“On the contrary, Mr Bates, perhaps it’s down to his use of resources that there have been no more attacks.”
“And the formation of a ‘Special Branch’ within the police, eh?”
“There’s no such thing, and if there were I couldn’t comment.”
“What’s going on here, Tom?” Sir Charles himself interjected having begun to overhear the increasingly heated conversation.
“Mr Bates here from The Star is de-crying the use of the dogs, sir.”
“Really, in what way then, Mr Bates?”
“Haven’t seen them track at a proper long distance yet, Sir Charles.”
“Right, then, teas gone on long enough, we’ll see to this, I shall conduct the experiment myself.”
Everyone left the confines of the theatre café to find that beyond the Inner Circle of the park encouraged by a drop in the temperature through the afternoon and the proximity of the boating lake the light fog had thickened.
“Right, then,” said Sir Charles, “ladies toilets just over there. I shall go in and rub my jacket well around the basins and towels and then Mr Brough can set the dogs to work on a proper man hunt. Ensure you allow me at least ten minutes before you start and we’ll prove their worth.” At this point the dogs were asleep on the café floor and the muttering amongst the sergeants and inspectors was ‘no change there, the Boss rubbing himself in the ladies bogs.’