by Giles Ekins
Razor George lifted Jenny -No-Nose again, ready to cut some more, but Sealskin seized his arm and stayed the strike. ‘Someone’s coming, boss. We got to go, afore the crushers find us.’ Boiler bent down over Liz’s body and extracted his red kerchief from her mouth, he was very particular about his kerchiefs, was Boiler, and he was afraid somebody might identify him from it.
The red rage-mists cleared and Razor George looked down at Long Liz’s body. A packet of violet cachous had spilled out from her hand, she must have held tight on to them all the time she had been in Boiler’s clutches. Her mouth was bloody and he saw that he had cut the bottom of her scarf when he had slashed her, the piece still in his hand. He dropped it to the ground as if it were infected.
Slowly he got to his feet, kicked the body once and hurriedly followed Sealskin and Boiler out from the yard. Barely had they reached the bottom of Berner Street and passed under the railway arch, when a pony and trap turned into Dutfields Yard. The pony reared at the smell of flesh blood. Louis Diemshutz got down from the trap and inspected the bundle of clothing by the wall. He poked it with his whip and as realisation dawned on him he turned and ran into the Jewish socialist club to raise the alarm.
2AM SUNDAY 30TH SEPTEMBER 1888
IT WAS ALMOST 2AM BY THE TIME Collingwood reached the murder site. A telegram had gone to both Scotland Yard and to his house in St Johns Wood. He had been abed and it had taken him some twenty minutes to dress and splash cold water into his face to clear away the mugginess of disturbed sleep from his brain. Maitland the footman had been dispatched to find a cab and by the time Collingwood was ready, a Hansom was waiting at the door.
Lucy, hearing the commotion, came down the stairs, rubbing the sleep out of her own eyes.
‘Papa?’
‘Nothing to worry yourself about, my dear, I just have to go out to a case, that is all. Take yourself back to bed, there’s no need for you to lose your sleep as well.’
‘It’s another murder, isn’t it Papa?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘It is so horrible, those poor unfortunates.’
‘I must go, Lucy.’
‘I know, Papa. Take care.’
Flanagan arrived almost the same time as Collingwood, his Hansom pulling up outside the gate of Dutfield’s Yard lust as Collingwood’s was pulling away. Flanagan was dishevelled, his dark hair unbrushed and unruly, even his thick black beard looked unkempt and in his haste to dress, had not properly secured his collar stud so that his collar hung loose and awry.
‘Another one sir.’ he asked as he joined Collingwood by the gateway.
‘I fear so.’
Chapter 25
CATHERINE EDDOWES GOT TO HER FEET, steadying herself against the cell wall as PC Henry Hutt opened the door to let her out. Five hours earlier, she had been picked up on Aldgate High Street for drunk and disorderly behaviour and taken to Bishopsgate police station to sober up. She had slept most of the time but by 12.30 had been loudly demanding her release. PC Hutt, the duty gaoler, had cleared her release with the Sergeant Atwill, the custody sergeant. ‘Aye, let her go,’ Atwill had said, ‘the noisy bitch’ll only kick up a rumpus all night else.’
‘What’s the time anyhow?’ Catherine, known as Kate, asked.
‘Just about one.’ answered Hutt.
‘I shall get a damned fine hiding an’ no mistake when I get home.’
‘And serve you right. You’ve no right to get so drunk.’
‘A body has to have a drink or two, every now and then.’ She followed on behind Hutt as he led her along the dank corridor from the cells and showed her to the main entrance.
‘Take care,’ Hutt warned, ‘The Whitechapel killer is still about.’
‘Don’t you fear for me, ducks, I’ll take care of myself and I shan’t fall into his hands. Don’t you fret none.’
‘You sure? I reckon Sergeant Atwill would let you stay ’ere if you’re afeared.’
‘Nah, My Jack’s gonna give me a hiding anyhow, best get on ’ome and get it over with.’
‘OK. Pull the door to, Kate,’ Hutt said, returning to his desk. He had done his best to dissuade her from going out into the dangerous Whitechapel streets at that time of night and now she would just have to take her chances…
‘All right, good night, old cock,’ she answered gaily and shutting the door behind her walked, none too steadily, out onto Bishopgate and headed on down Houndsditch towards Aldgate and Whitechapel.
A NUMBER OF POLICEMEN WERE ALREADY CROWDED around the body as Collingwood and Flanagan made their way through the gateway into Dutfield’s Yard. Collingwood recognised Superintendent West and Inspector Reid from the Commercial Street police station. A number of sergeants and constables milled around aimlessly until Reid ordered them to go outside the yard and control the crowd that was beginning to gather.
Summoned to the scene as soon as the cadaver had been discovered, a local doctor, Doctor Frederick Blackwell, and his assistant, Edward Johnston, crouched by the body. Superintendent West, and another senior officer, Inspector Pinhorn, were not at all pleased to see Collingwood there, resenting any interference from CID. They saw his presence as a slight on their own abilities to catch the murderer and pointedly excluded him and Flanagan from any of their discussions, not too subtly interposing themselves between Collingwood and the doctors examining the corpse.
Collingwood took no notice; he had no time for petty police rivalries, and even though it was not his investigation, was determined to glean whatever information he could if it would aid him in his search for Sinistrari. He told Flanagan to go and talk to the officers who had been first on the scene and then crouched down beside the body, noting immediately that she was not mutilated and her skirts not raised, unlike the other Whitechapel victims. The one cut to the throat appeared to be the only injury. Blood gleamed blackly in the dim light barely oozing out from the widows of the IWMC next door.
Doctor George Bagster Phillips, the Police Surgeon for H Division, had now arrived. He also examined the body and after conferring with Doctor Blackwell, went over to talk to Superintendent West and Inspectors Reid and Pinhorn, the officers officially in charge of the investigation from H Division.
However, Inspector First Class Abberline from Central Office CID at Scotland Yard was the senior CID officer assisting the Whitechapel killings and would lead and coordinate the enquiry once he arrived at the scene.
Collingwood and Flanagan moved over to join the discussions, ignoring the black looks from West. Even though West outranked Collingwood, he was still a CID Chief Inspector and was not about to be intimidated by interdepartmental jealousy.
‘Doctor Blackwell and I concur that death occurred sometime between 12.36 and 12.56, when the body was discovered,’ stated Phillips.
‘How can you be so precise?’ demanded West belligerently.
‘The neck and chest are still quite warm, as are the legs. These are determining factors.’
‘As is the fact, sir,’ said Flanagan politely, ‘that officers have already established that there was nobody here when the chairman of the Jewish club there,’ pointing to the building at the side of the square, ‘walked through here at about 12.40.’
West glowered at Flanagan, who took no notice. ‘It’s the same killer, though, in’it, the same one as did Nicholls and Chapman.’ It was a statement, not a question, Collingwood could see that West had it already in his mind that the murderer must be the same and no amount of contradictory evidence was going to shake that conviction. ‘Everything else is similar, in’it, cut throat, ’cept he got disturbed before he could do his work and mutilate. Has to be.’
‘I can determine more when I carry out the autopsy, but my immediate thoughts are that there are in fact great dissimilarities,’ answered Doctor Phillips. ‘I do not believe that the murder weapon was a long knife as was used in the Chapman killing. In Chapman’s case the neck was severed all round to the vertebral column and there had been an attempt to separ
ate the bones. That is not the case here. I could not, at this time, conclude that the killings are the same.’
West blustered some more, but Phillips would not change his opinion. Collingwood was also unconvinced that the killing had been carried out by the same hand and that therefore this murder was unlikely to yield any information which might assist his search for Sinistrari and he turned to leave.
CATHERINE, KNOWN AS KATE, needed a drink. Her throat was a dry as a desert sandstorm and she desperately needed a gin and hot water to quench her thirst and ease the rasping soreness in her gullet. Trouble was, she had no money, and no means of getting any. Not unless she could find some trade. She was not a habitual prostitute but when needs must!
She knew she ought to be getting on home to Flower Street; her common law husband Jack Kelly, would not be best pleased and was bound to give her a beating. But no matter what time she got home now she was going to feel his fists and belt – so why not have a little taster and if that meant taking some man down a dark alley for a tenpenny fuck, well that wouldn’t be the first time and unlikely to be the last.
HE SAW HER COMING DOWN HOUNDSDITCH. He had not expected to come so far from his lair in Batty Street, but the hookers on Commercial Road had all been too chary to go with him – there had been another killing nearby and the girls were jumpy. No back alleys for them tonight; they wanted to ply their trade at any of the low hostelries and boarding houses that would rent a bed by the hour – but he did not want that; he could not afford to be seen. So, he had come further west than he would have liked.
He wanted to leave the killing tonight, too many police around – but the Master had been insistent.
‘We must create panic in streets. We must humiliate Collingwood, bring to attention his gross ineptitude so that he will be forced to slink away and hide his face forever in shame, Then you can kill him. But tonight, strike again tonight,’ the Master ordered and he dare not disobey. Those who disobeyed the Master tended to meet extraordinarily unpleasant deaths and that he did not want – oh nossir, nossireee, no sir.
SHE STAGGERED SLIGHTLY AS SHE CAME UP TO HIM, he could smell the drink on her from five feet away. Not that it mattered much, in a short while she would smell far worse. He patted his pockets again, reassured once more that his knives were in place.
‘Ello, me old ducks, you lookin’ for a bit o’ naughty?’ she said, blowing stale ale and gin fumes into his face as she pressed up to him, reaching for his groin as she did so.
‘Why, yes indeed, my dear.’
‘Wanna come wi’ me then. I knows a nice quiet little place, jus’ round the corner from ’ere. Nobody’ll bother us there and we can ’ave a nice long cosy fuck, cos I’m right in the mood for it. Ow’s about it?’
‘Sure sounds most admirable to me, my dear. You just lead us on’
Catherine took his arm and leaned into him, as much as for balance as for any sense of passion, giving him a blowsy kiss as she did so. Then she led him further down Aldgate and turned up into Mitre Street. They passed along by some empty houses before Catherine led him through the passageway into Mitre Square.
‘Just round the back ’ere, me darling,’ she said, leading him into the darkest corner of the square. There she leaned back against the wall and reached down to pick up her skirts. She wore no drawers and the flesh of her legs and thighs gleamed deathly pale in the meagre light that shone from the lamppost across the square. ‘Ow do you want it, ducks, how’d you like it, frontwise or back?’
PC EDWARD WATKINS, OF THE CITY POLICE, had been walking his beat for many years. He knew every alley and backstreet, every dark corner, every nook and cranny. He knew the night watchmen who guarded the myriad of small business here about and could always rely on finding a nice cup of hot sweet tea from the pot gently stewing on top of a watchman’s charcoal brazier. He knew who did what and where and to whom; he knew all the illegal gaming clubs and once a fortnight would call on by to collect the due contribution to his ‘pension fund’. He knew all the local petty fences, thieves, burglars, pickpockets and prostitutes. And he knew where to come upon the whores and their clients as they conducted their furtive business. He especially liked catching a whore and her customer actually in the act. Then he would send the man away with a warning or maybe even extract a small fine from him, then, once the punter had gone, the regular girls knew to lift their skirts and bend over whilst he took them from the rear. He never fucked them face to face – well it wouldn’t be decent would it, him being a serving police officer and all that?.
He had come down Creechurch Street and onto Leadenhall Street before turning up into Mitre Street. Heading for Mitre Square. Mitre Square was always a good site for the whores and he had been disappointed on his last turn not to find any activity going on; it was very quiet for a Saturday night but he could never remember any Saturday night, quiet or not, when he did not get his fair ration of greens.
The premises of Williams and Co were on the corner by the passageway that led into Mitre Square. A gas lamp on the corner of the building threw some dim light down the passage but Watkins knew he would need his bulls-eye lantern once he got into the square and unclipped it from his belt and switched it on. His footsteps echoed hollowly against the brickwork. Once inside the square he swiftly cast the beam of his torch around but could see no signs of activity. ‘Bugger and bastard,’ he muttered to himself, he was good and ready for his Saturday night extra and he was annoyed that no whores were about. Next time, next time for sure, he told himself.
His beat took around fifteen to twenty minutes to complete depending who he saw and spoke to on his perambulations but there was plenty of time yet to go before the end of his shift – bound to come across somebody next time around and he rubbed at his crotch in anticipation. Even though it was obvious that there was nobody in the square he still had to carry out his inspections, to make sure that all the doors and windows were secure and that there were no nefarious characters lurking in the passageways and dark corners. He turned to the right to check out the first corner and the passageway to the rear of the Mitre Street houses; casually waving his bulls-eye across the pavement without any real expectation of discovering anything unless it was some old drunkard passed out in the passage.
And at first he thought it was a drunk.
The Ripper, killer of Catherine Eddowes, scurried along the back streets to the north of Commercial Road. His lair, 22 Batty Street, was south of the busy highway but he knew all the back alleys and passages, even though he was not originally from the Whitechapel area, or the city, or even of the country.
From the scene of the murder, he went down Church Passage leading out from the rear of Mitre Square, up Duke Street, across Houndsditch, down Stoney Lane, and onto Goulston Street where he disposed of a blood-soaked cloth used to wipe his hands, tossing it into a passageway out of sight. Wentworth Street, Old Montague Street and down the narrow stinking passage that was Black Lion Yard. Swiftly crossing over Whitechapel Road, he hurried on down Fieldgate Street that becomes Plumbers Row from where he would cross over Commercial Street and down Berner Street before cutting through the constricted shadow-dark passage that led to the rear his lodging at No 22 Batty Street. As he about to cross Commercial Road he suddenly noticed a large body of police on Berner Street going from house to house, knocking on doors to rouse the occupants and he heard shouts of ‘murder, another bloody murder, murder.’ The Ripper stopped, his heart beating fiercely, he knew that if he were stopped and questioned, as he surely would be if he carried on down Berner Street; his blood-soaked clothes would quickly give him away and he could feel the shadow of the noose tighten about him.
Turning sharply he ran back up Plumbers Row, turned right along St Charles Street, down Greenfield Street and without waiting to see if the coast were clear he swiftly crossed over Commercial Road, keeping his bloody hands well out of sight and down the squalid length of Batty Street.
He knew he had to get away, there must have been another k
illing, they could not possibly have found his victim yet, some distance away in Mire Square, but that was no consolation. House to house enquires would soon reach Batty Street and his blood-soaked clothing would readily give him away unless he could change his clothing and leave the lodging for good. Nor could he risk carrying the bloody clothes away with him, he was certain to be stopped and any baggage searched.
He hastily unfastened his shirt, the cuffs and sleeves thickly stained in still wet blood. He tossed the shirt aside and took down another from the wardrobe, knocking over a chair in his haste. Cursing he picked up, knowing he was making too much noise.
Downstairs, his landlady, a stout middle -aged German lady called Frau Baumhoff, heard the clattering and scraping and banging going on over her head and got up to investigate; she was in any case an early riser. She met her tenant as he came down the stairs and she could immediately see he had changed clothing from that he wore earlier when he had gone out.
‘Changed clothes, and going out again? So early in ze mornink?’
‘Sure, and I’ll be away for a little while. Got me some good business to attend to. Say, Miz Baumhoff, I’ve left a shirt in my room, could you wash it for me and have it ready for me when I return? Much obliged, ma’am.’
And at that he hurried on out.
PC ALFRED LONG DID NOT LIKE his new beat, he did not like it at all. He had been drafted into H Division from Westminster Division to supplement the police patrols trying to apprehend the unknown killer who had the Whitechapel district grasped tight in his dread grip.
He much preferred his old beat in Westminster which took him along the Victoria Embankment as far as Westminster Bridge, along Bridge Street, George Street, through St James Park onto the Mall and Charing Cross and then down Northumberland Avenue and back onto the Embankment. A nice peaceful, civilised beat, with the bustling activity of the river to note, the parliamentary dignity of the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben to admire, the majestic grandeur of Westminster Abbey to wonder at and the quiet peacefulness of St James Park to calm the soul. It was a civilised beat in a civilised district; unlike the Sodom and Gomorrah of crime, vice, poverty, filth and endless iniquity that was Whitechapel. The sooner they caught this monster so that he could return to Westminster and civilisation the better as far as PC Alfred Long was concerned; not that there wasn’t crime and rancid noxious slums in Westminster division, no, but nothing like the cesspit that was Whitechapel.
