Authors: Bryan Lightbody
“Don’t worry, lad, few good first thrusts and you’ll be well used to it.”
Druitt was stunned by what he was hearing but it instantly formed a better plan in his head. He scurried back into the pub not wanting to be caught as a voyeur of the homosexual couple and waited for the return of the boy. It took some time so he continued listening to Lusk and his followers until the boy came back in walking very awkwardly and painfully and returned to the bar. He looked to be in obvious physical distress so Druitt left it for some while before he approached him.
“Excuse me, young man, but I couldn’t help noticing you leave the pub followed by that older fellow,” said Druitt.
“Look, it will be the same for you as him, £1 and no less.”
“No, not for me, but I have a business proposition for you, worth £10 with no pain whatsoever, just a little bit of fibbing. Half now and half once you’ve done the job.”
“Oh, yeah, what is it then?”
“Can we discuss it elsewhere?” The lad looked around.
“Like where? You ain’t gonna much me, I ain’t drunk.”
“No, I’ll get a cab outside, you join me and while we go for a ride I’ll tell you.” The lad paused looking around and then down at his feet for a while chewing his bottom lip.
“Its £10 is it?”
“Yes, half now and half later.”
“All right, I’ll see you outside in a few minutes in a cab then, mister.”
Druitt left and hailed down a passing a hansom and spoke to the driver.
“I’m waiting for a passenger and then take me off towards Commercial Street Police Station.” The driver nodded his head in response. The young lad came out and jumped in the cab.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“Fred Churchyard.”
“Right then, Fred, here’s the job. I need you to go into Commercial Street nick and say you’ve been attacked and buggered by an American who I will tell you about. This has occurred on at least two occasions, and that he’s attacked you and some of your mates who are too scared to come forward. You can make up the dates, but the important thing is that you describe him and you see it through to court too, it’s worth £10, that’s a lot of money.” Fred sat silent for two or three minutes looking out of the window as they travelled repeating phrases like ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I don’t want no trouble’, ‘you’re asking a lot’. So Druitt cut in once more.
“All right, £15 but no more. Five now and the other ten later.”
“Yeah, deal, give us the money and tell me what he’s like.” Through the rest of the journey Druitt described him down to a fine detail and dropped Fred off at the door of The Street. He gave him £5 and said “See me on Friday at The Ten Bells with proof from the police that you’ve done what I’ve asked and you’ll get the rest.” Fred jumped out of the cab and made his way into the police station.
Inspector Chandler was stood at the front desk when Fred entered and spoke to the desk sergeant. “I want to make a complaint of assault by an American toff in the area.” Chandler looked him up and down suspiciously giving little weight to what the lad had just said.
“Oh, yeah? So where and when did this happen then?” said Chandler.
“Well, recent like, to me and a couple of me mates. It was ‘orrible, abused us right good and proper. Too ashamed to speak here.”
“Tell you what, you come back with your mates and we’ll take the complaint from all of you together.” Fred felt distinctly uncomfortable trying to make up an assault complaint on behalf of someone else and was losing his nerve. He stood silent before replying for some time considering the money and considering the reaction of leaving now from the man who might still be waiting outside. He decided he had to leave and come back.
“All right, I’ll come by later on.”
“Right oh,” replied Chandler nonchalantly as Fred turned and left to face Druitt.
“You didn’t do it did you?” demanded Druitt
“Nah, I couldn’t. I need time to think. Bring me back next week and I promise I will do it.” Druitt had started along a path he must end.
“Right,” he responded reluctantly. “We’ll come here next week or no money and I’ll shop you for male prostitution.” Fred was forced to concede.
Thursday 24
th
October 5.a.m; Abberline walked all around the back streets of Spitalfields now officially off duty in sheer hope of finding the perpetrator committing these hideous crimes that occupied all of his waking hours. His wife and dog, his only dependants, had seen little of him for weeks as he chose to spend so much official and unofficial time in Whitechapel, and now again he found himself wandering the deserted district this time in gloomy Gun Street. As he headed towards Bishopsgate, a young constable rounded a corner ahead and walked towards him and recognising Abberline instantly. He pulled himself upright to address him as they neared. It was Constable Bob Spicer.
“All correct, sir,” he said nodding his head respectfully.
“Thank you, Spicer. Seen much tonight then?”
“No, very quiet it seems tonight, sir. Hardly anyone about at all.”
“Good, stay vigilant.”
“Sir, you know this area well, what’s the story with the name Spitalfields then?”
“Goes back to when the area here was the site of a hospital and its grounds and the name is from the bastardisation of ‘hospital fields’.”
“Oh, blimey. What about the ‘Houndsditch’ just off our bit then?”
“What, do you want, a bleeding tour or something, son?”
“No, just I get asked that’s all, sir.”
“Last question, comes from the Roman times, when the wall of the city that ran along that bit was the place where the people would throw their dead dogs over the wall to outside of the city, hence the ‘hounds ditch’. Now get on with your patrols, you cheeky young bugger!” said Abberline with a smirk on his face.
“Yes, sir. Thanks for the tips. Take care with your patrol, sir.” Spicer walked off towards Christchurch and Commercial Street.
It amused Abberline that this lad saw nothing strange in seeing him out on the ground at such an ungodly hour; a fact that he could only put down to everyone being so pre-occupied with the murders, as he was. He walked alone into a near deserted Middlesex Street and turned back towards Aldgate stopping periodically to try to catch the sounds of footsteps from the alleyways. He pulled a hip flask of whiskey from inside his suit and took a generous swig and continued his wandering for another hour before returning to The Street. He found an empty cell which the custody sergeant allowed him to restlessly sleep in for a couple of hours before the next working day began.
***
Sunday 27
th
October; Mary again sat at Robert’s bedside clasping his hands in her own having long since given up on talking to him some thirty minutes earlier in her two hour long visit so far. She sat silently hoping he would soon wake up; there had been no change in his condition other than the swelling to his face having subsided and apart from his nose he was beginning to look like himself again. As she sat quietly she became aware of a presence behind her that made her feel quite uncomfortable and knew that it wasn’t one of the nursing staff. She turned to see a foreboding looking man she recognised; John Littlechild.
“So what happened to him then?” He asked seemingly to lack any genuine concern.
“He was hit by a carriage in the High Street,” replied Mary mournfully.
“Too bad, wonder if it was an accident or if he’d found something out and got pushed?” pondered Littlechild.
“Who would do that? He’s only come across decent local people; others that aren’t local are decent too.”
“Oh, yes, like who then? Who’s not local then?”
“Well, just one chap, a nice young Irish lad called Sean Miller.”
“Nice Irish chap, eh? You would think that. Did he know what Robert does?”
“No, most people don’t take any notice of us in the pubs, and we certainly didn’t tell him anything.”
“Yes, but gossip, my dear. If he is a new man in the area and some local says ‘watch him he’s a copper’, if your friend Mr Miller is a Fenian activist he will stop at nothing to not be found out. Do you know where he lives then?”
“No, but he drinks in The Blind Beggar.”
“Right, I’ll get my lads to go and visit him. Now tell me, what does he look like then?” Reluctantly she described Miller to Littlechild concerned about his motives but feeling threatened and vulnerable without Robert conscious and able bodied.
“When he wakes up let the bar keeper at the Commercial Street Tavern know, if you need to get me for anything else speak to him.” Arrogantly Littlechild walked off leaving Mary more troubled than ever. She decided to leave for a late afternoon drink at The Britannia.
Mary strolled through the doors of the pub on the corner of Dorset Street and Commercial Street just after 5.p.m; it was quiet with only a few hardened drinkers inside none of whom she recognised. She got herself a tankard of ale and sat alone in a corner staring at the frosted glass that separated her from the outside world wondering when Francis might appear in her life, knowing she would now face this potential peril by herself. Over the next quarter of an hour the pub began to fill up with other women, soldiers, locals in their Sunday best and a regular face she knew; that of the pianist who would liven the place up for the evenings.
He began with a rendition of ‘Who will buy my pretty flowers’ after a request from one of the local well dressed men whose teenage daughter stood up to sing a solo version in accompaniment. The girl was very tuneful with a soothing quality to her voice and Mary watched her resting her chin on her hand propped by her elbow on the rough bar table lost in the sound of the song reminding her of her late childhood of only ten years previously. She was staring at the pianist and the girl singing with her gaze totally fixed so that she was unaware of movement in the immediate foreground; unaware of the smartly but conservatively dressed figure that now approached her with an arm in a sling. She only acknowledged the individual sporting the large moustache with cold alarm as he sat opposite her and spoke in a very distinctive accent.
“Well, well, Mary Jane. Hello. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you and how long I’ve been looking for you.” Mary was frozen with fear unable to manage a reply, trying but with her mouth moving helplessly incapable of forming any words or even the merest sound as a result of her throat drying up completely.
“Now, there, that’s no good, you must be able to say something to your dear old Francis after all this time, eh? I mean you stole every goddamn cent I own near enough when you took my jewels, and look at you living like a whore in the East End of London. Or are you actually a whore? Hmmm?” She took a deep breath and coughed and managed to begin to engage him in a conversation.
“I didn’t mean to. I was scared. Your behaviour, your horrible jars. I had no money I had to escape. I can give it all back to you. Just leave me alone, leave Whitechapel alone.” She was trying hard to keep tears at bay and maintain her composure with this fearful man in front of her staring at her with eyes that seemed to penetrate her very soul.
“What do you mean? Leave Whitechapel alone? Who do you think I am, eh? Do you think I’m this ‘Jack’ fellow?” As she listened to him the rage over what he had done was welling up inside her and giving her strength to deal with him on equal terms, a strength which walking the streets of Whitechapel she had been forced to develop.
“If I scream now the whole of this pub will lynch you if I so much indicate who you might be and you’ll get nothing except the street hangman’s noose. A foreign man accused, your jars when they find them, you’re not even denying it. Did you kill those women to get to me? Is there anything that you are not capable of?”
“Yes, never loving a whoring woman again,” he replied, lowering his head and snarling through his teeth, “All they have brought me is heartache and pain, and what I do and I take unburdens the heart break that my soul continually seems to live with. Yes I did kill some of those women, not all of them, but by god I wish I had, to rid the streets of filthy whores leaching off innocent and foolish men. Now, where are my jewels?”
“Why? You going to kill me too? If you do you’ll never find out. Right now I am worth too much to you alive.” She had a point, despite the voices driving his blood lust to be satisfied, he couldn’t afford to kill her before time. He sat back staring at her with total contempt before speaking again, contemplating how he could out do her treachery.
“All right, what do you want for us to go our separate ways safely?”
“I’ll give you the jewels in exchange for some money to leave. If you do this I won’t shop you I’ll disappear forever with your secret. If you don’t or try anything before we exchange, I’ll shop you.” He paused.
“How much?”
“How much are the jewels worth?”
“Oh no, no way. Just give me a price.” She was ignorant of the vast value of the jewels and had to think about a figure substantial to her.
“I want £3000 and no less. You buy my silence and I leave this country for home.” It was a significant amount of money but with the return of the jewels easily attainable and worth it.
“Deal. Where and when?”
“Victoria Park, by the boating lake kiosk in two days time, one o’clock.”
“I’ll be there, make sure you are alone, because I will find you, believe me.” He got up and left The Britannia her eyes following him as he walked across the pub and pushed his way out of the double doors. She began to shake uncontrollably and sob dropping her arms folded onto the table and burying her face into them. Should she allow a man who had just confessed to being Jack the Ripper walk free? She would never realise that at that very time he was unable to physically attack her as a result of his injured arm and was probably at his weakest.
***
That evening Richard Mansfield sat back in an arm chair in his dressing room as he listened to Robert Lees reading the results of Tarot cards to him that he had lain out on the counter in front of the mirrors. Since the negative publicity courtesy of The Star, ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ had been playing to ever reducing audiences every night and the owners of the Lyceum had decided to terminate its run early as a result. Getting to a point where less than half of the house was occupied meant that heavy financial losses were beginning to be sustained. Knowing Robert Lees reputation, Mansfield had called upon his services to find out what the future held for him and if there was a hint of what maybe a good production to develop.