Authors: Bryan Lightbody
Frederick Abberline, Inspector.
Abberline looked up at Godley once finished who gave him an accepting nod of approval. He took it to the clerk and within a few minutes it was gone. They returned to The Street to discover the latest on the Chapman enquiry and were in for some extremely mixed news.
Over one hundred additional policemen had now flooded into the Whitechapel area to assist in door to door enquiries and to try to calm the general feeling amongst the populace by providing even more patrols. It was the enquiries of one of these officers drafted in during a casual conversation with a worried local woman in Cable Street that had brought some vital news. Constable Ben England from Forest Gate division had engaged a woman resident from Cable Street in casual conversation when she had asked him if anyone was as yet in custody.
“No, madam, afraid not. But we’re working on it, like.”
“So, where’s old Chapman gone then, or ain’t you a local bloke?” asked the woman.
“Don’t know who you mean, love. I’m from Forest Gate just brought in to help, like.”
“Oh. Do you want to know where he is?”
“Every thing helps of course….?”
“Well. His wife, Lucy, said he were in a bit of trouble. Don’t know what sort, but she said they was going off to Tottenham to stay away for a bit. He’s a right shit. Horrible to her, and always impolite to his customers. Good job he’s fucked off.” The constable listened to all that she said intently; he knew that the detectives would relish hearing this information and he was keen to get back and report it.
The dire news of the brutal events in the barber’s shop had also reached the Ripper incident room. This was a massive development and needed to be acted on immediately along with PC England’s intelligence which only confirmed that their second key suspect must be in Tottenham. The wounding of the constable and the murder’s of the two civilians needed the intervention of Abberline’s team immediately with it’s relevant links to the Whitechapel events; a foreign suspect, in a barber’s in Tottenham, the missing Cable Street barber having gone to Tottenham and the wounding of a constable who had been asking the right questions of the wrong person when he had been in a vulnerable position. With this news Abberline and Godley immediately left with Bill Thick and Murphy for Tottenham, all of them deciding to draw revolvers and join the manhunt.
Friday 30th November and Richard Mansfield’s ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ had closed. Initially embittered by the closure of what was hailed as a spectacular performance and theatrical success, he had lifted his own spirits by throwing himself wholeheartedly into a new version of Shakespeare’s ‘Richard III’. Mansfield was a believer, as were many of the age, in spiritualism and had decided to seek the guidance of a noted London psychic again. He had decided to convene with Robert Lees at the Café Royal at the bottom of Regents Street just prior to Piccadilly Circus. They were aware of each other’s notoriety and formally introduced themselves for a second time in the foyer before taking their table for afternoon tea.
They were shown to a comfortable table on the first floor overlooking the bustling thoroughfare outside surrounded by many others of London’s upper class society. They both knew some of the other diners that were also taking tea there that afternoon; Philanthropist Dr Thomas Barnado, colourful London Coroner Dr Wynne Baxter, Miss Lilly Langtree, and painter Walter Sickert who was taking tea with and at the request of the Duke of Clarence and Avondale, Prince Albert Victor. They perused the menu and ordered a selection of sandwiches, scones with jam, cream and Cornish butter and a pot of jasmine tea to be served without milk between them.
“How very civilised and English, Robert.” Remarked Mansfield glibly.
“Well, you know. When in Rome and all that, old boy. I thought you might appreciate sampling our traditions.”
“Certainly. I have sampled so much of your culture so far. Your overbearing police, the misleading and ill reporting press and the fickle London audiences.”
“Well, one can apologise for the fact that fate did conspire to bring these forces together against you.”
“Well I am glad you bring up the matter of fate. You obviously received my letter regarding my request for further clairvoyance on my career. Have you as yet seen anything in your psychic sessions?” Mansfield was pleased he had managed to guide the topic of conversation so soon.
“Well, Richard, my visions of recent have been many and varied in several matters. But in your life, I see many things. Some of which you may not wish to know about.”
“All right, if there’s good news and bad news I guess I’d like to start on a high. Besides, paying money for such a service where ones life is foretold, it can’t be all roses and parties.” Again his remark was glib bordering on flippant.
“Very well. Firstly, your next role is of a regal nature, yes?”
“Yes it is. Shakespeare’s Richard III.”
“It will play for a successful run in London, but more importantly for you it will be well received in a Lincolnshire port.”
“Goddamn Lincolnshire! I’ve never been there and don’t intend to go. You sure on that?”
“Well, there could be a double meaning; there is a Boston there and of course your own country.”
“Well, that’s more like it. What’s the bad news?” There was a pause in the conversation. Lees looked around the room before bowing his head and speaking without making eye contact.
“I can see nothing past your 50
th
year, Richard. Please see a physician regularly at the turn of the century.” He lifted his head and made eye contact with Mansfield who was nodding his head in grave thoughtful acknowledgment.
“I see. Got anything else?”
“Not of note, my friend.”
Their afternoon tea arrived and was placed on their table by an attractive young waitress. Mansfield looked her up and down and made eye contact and smiled. He was renowned as a discreet womaniser. She returned the smile shyly and then bowed her head and left, back towards the direction that led to the kitchens.
“Anything to brighten my humour or titillate then, Robert? What of the Whitechapel murders then?” This was a topic on which Robert Lees felt great passion, though resentment of his treatment by the police. He was more than willing to comment on what had come to him recently but what he had vowed never to take to Abberline or anyone else.
Lees composed himself before speaking. He lifted the tea pot and poured them each a cup. He sat back and took a deep breath.
“Where should I start? That common fool detective Abberline had the audacity to call me a fool and a lunatic for trying to provide them with information regarding the killer. He failed to understand that my visions are frequently symbolic and not always directly precognitive. They sent me away but I was proved right by what I told them. But, I have the ‘last laugh’ for want of a better metaphor. I have foreseen that the men who have committed these crimes will never be caught by the law and the detectives will be prevented to do so by powerful men in society; so their efforts will be fruitless.” Mansfield looked on in stunned silence following the outburst. He considered Lees’ words which provoked questions in his mind. ‘These men’ he spoke of, who were they? Was there more than one killer?
“Robert, of what do you speak?”
“Ah, I knew it would get someone’s attention. One man is
responsible
for the true murders on the whole. Others became involved either by design or accident. But one who has fled the land is responsible. Trust me.”
“Who the hell is this man?” asked a stunned and transfixed Mansfield.
Again Lees fell silent, seemingly reluctant to speak further. He sipped his jasmine tea and lifted a sandwich and took a bite.
“One of your countrymen is culpable for these acts. He commissioned them himself and committed three. Of the other three one other man of greater evil is responsible or associated with them. He killed through lust and greed.” Mansfield was feeling cynical about such in depth information, especially concerning a fellow American.
“Oh, really,” he tried not to let his cynicism sound in his voice. “Pray tell me what this American’s motivation was?”
“Hatred fuelled by curtailed passions,” replied Lees with conviction. “You seem no better than Abberline, Mr Mansfield?” said Lees making eye contact with him.
“Look, Mister, you tell me Jack shit in depth information about my future but you know all about Jack the Ripper. You must have gipsy blood in you and read a goddamn crystal ball knowing all that stuff. No wonder the cops don’t take you seriously. Give me a bill and we’ll be done.” Lees stood up outraged and was about to speak but was interrupted by Mansfield finishing his diatribe.
“In fact, here’s £20 of your crappy money, I can afford it having been given compensation for the show closing early due to you limey bastards.” The room had now fallen silent with everyone transfixed by the confrontation taking place. Mansfield now got to his feet.
“You know, I understand your future crap about me. My play is too good for here so I shall take it back to the states at the earliest opportunity. And that shit about me having no future after fifty, that’s because I won’t be here in the U.K so you won’t be able to see it either way.”
He threw the money at the sensitive Lees who watched aghast as it bounced off of his chest into his tea and Mansfield stormed off. Lees looked around the silent salon of the Café Royal to see everyone staring at him. He took another deep breath and sat down as he heard the conversation around the room restart, albeit he could tell about what they had just seen, he had his pride. He continued to take his tea and forced his now churning stomach to accept sandwiches. Another such humiliation in London would drive him to leave the capital sooner rather than later.
***
3.p.m; Abberline, Godley, Bill Thick and Murphy arrived at Tottenham to follow the trail from the scene. The bodies of the victims had long been taken to the mortuary but the barber’s premises had been left as it was following the attacks. Constable Rowntree was back having been tended to at the hospital and been fortunate to have lost little blood. He was keen to impart anything he could that may prove of use to Abberline. The problem for the detectives when they arrived at the scene was that there was no trail to follow. Rowntree had been unconscious when Klosowski had escaped. No one near the premises seemed to have seen anyone leave. The alarm had only been sounded when the other constable patrolling in the vicinity hadn’t met Rowntree during his own rounds. He found the wounded policeman unconscious still behind the closed doors of the Shop.
“So, Constable Rowntree,” said Abberline, “who was this man then?”
“Well, Guv’nor, he was Polish, average height dark hair and a slight moustache, with ‘orrible piercing eyes full of hate.”
“I see. Did you get a name for this fellow then? And what was he wearing when it happened? Has he been here long?”
“They called him Sev which was short by all accounts for Severin. I found some papers here that gave his name as Klosowski. He had a barber’s apron on and clothes underneath must have got covered in blood. I’ve got to say he didn’t answer many questions before it all kicked off.”
“Did he say anything beyond that?” asked Godley listening intently.
“In fact, no he didn’t. I asked him a couple more but he got really offish. It all went quiet for a while until he plunged the scissors into my back.”
“How old was he?”
“Mid to late twenties. Looks just like any other Polish immigrant really. Nasty bastard though.” Abberline moved away from him and wandered around the interior of the shop. There was a lot of blood on the floors and on the walls which without even seeing the corpses of the victims indicated to Abberline the ferocity with which the attacks had taken place.
“Right, then.” Abberline addressed the gathered officers. “I want all local bus conductors and cab drivers interviewed over the next few days to see if they saw anything. He’s left with the girl that blabbed in Cable Street so have descriptions of both available when you talk.” They all looked on at him waiting for him to continue. He looked around back at them with a scowl. “What you waiting for, you’re still here; get out there before the streets close!”
Bill Thick, Murphy and all the gathered local uniformed officers hurried out and dispersed to get on with his instructions.
“Right, George. Telex all ports and main railway stations. Get them all on alert to find this man. I’m not fucking losing this bloke as well.”
***
Saturday 1
st
December 10.42.p.m and DC Parish found himself back at The Street about to enter the locked incident room having just had a couple of quiet drinks locally still with an ear to the ground for information. No one came forward in The Ten Bells or The Britannia with any thing new so he had decided to return to the office for a cup of tea to warm himself up, and to try to reduce the smell of alcohol on his breath before returning to his wife. As he got to the door he noticed that it was already ajar. It should have been locked. He could see candle light burning inside and assumed, dangerously wrongly, that some one else from the team must be in there. He pushed the door open and saw a figure with his back to him at one of the desks.
“What’s going on here then, matey?” he said expecting the figure to turn and for him to recognise him. The figure remained at the desk looking through a file. Parish took another step further into the office which proved his down fall.
A figure stepped from behind the door and lunged at his face with a hot burning candle. It struck him hard in the right eye with immediate and agonising pain. He collapsed with a scream and almost throwing up from the agony the attack inflicted. His scream was quickly muffled as the figure then shoved the candle into his mouth which did cause him wretch and vomit ejecting the candle at the same time. He was powerless to react through pain and illness disabling him as he was then kicked with ferocity several times in the stomach. The two figures left the office; the one that had been at the desk he did manage to notice was carrying a bag of some sort, leaving him writhing in silent agony on the floor. His throat burned from the acid bile being forced up from his stomach and from melted wax having also contaminated it. His eye was causing him indescribable pain and he sensed he may not see out of it again. He now realised that those powerful men to whom he had sold himself previously to supply information were ruthless in the extreme; they cared not for who got in the way of their plans and any loyalty or assistance they had been shown. He suddenly and guiltily resented having sold out the investigation. Then the pain in his eye socket seemed to escalate and it wasn’t long before he passed out and sensed nothing.