by Giles Ekins
Nevertheless, PC Long was a conscientious copper and he would do his duty as ordered in his briefing; to check out every entrance and recess, every door and gateway, every yard, alley and passageway along his beat. There already been one killing, a woman’s body found across the other side of Commercial Road, in Berner Street, and the police on patrol had been told to be extra vigilant.
It was almost 3am as he slowly patrolled down the east side of Goulston Street, he was tired and footsore and looking forward to the end of his shift so that he could get on home to his breakfast and bed. He yawned loudly, feeling his jawbone creak. His bladder felt full as well and he would soon have to stop off in a quiet back alley to relieve himself.
As he approached the passage leading to Nos108-119 Model Buildings he noticed something shining wetly on the pavement. He hurried forward, his bulls-eye lamp in hand. Long squatted down onto his haunches to examine his find. It was a piece of cloth, and as he touched it his fingers came away sticky with blood. The cloth smelled of faeces as well. His heart pounded in trepidation, had he come across yet another killing? He slowly stood up and shone his lantern into the doorway. There he saw writing chalked on the wall above the piece of cloth. Long played his torchlight along the walls as he read the writing, unaware that he was saying the words out loud.
The Juwes are
The men that
Will not be blamed
for nothing.
‘Oh Lord,’ he whispered as he backed out of the passage, reaching for his truncheon, expecting at any moment to be confronted by a deranged killer. The feel of the wooden club in his hand gave some small comfort but his heart still raced in unease.
He glanced up and down Goulston Street, looking for help; he had passed by Constable Miller on Wentworth Street as he patrolled the adjoining beat and Long, quickly gathering his wits, ran back to Wentworth Street to find Miller.
Together the two police officers searched the staircases and doorways of the building, the beams from their bulls-eye torch dancing across the grimy walls like a ritual dance but they found nothing further.
Leaving Miller to guard the entry by the writing, Long took the piece of blood-soaked cloth and hurried down to Commercial Street police station to report his find. At the station the duty inspector told him that yet another body had been found, this time in Mitre Square.
‘Oh Lord, do you think this is from her?’ Long asked, pointing at the cloth, which when examined more closely appeared to have been cut from an apron, ‘D’you think he wiped his hands on it. To clean off the blood?’
‘Could be, could be, it’ll be checked against her clothing in the morgue.’
‘This cloth weren’t there when I passed by ‘bout twenty past, twenty past two.’’
ou sure?’
‘Yes, definitely.’
‘You’d best be sure because the other body was found at just before two and it’s barely a five minute walk from Mitre Square, less if he’s in a hurry.’ With his finger, the Inspector traced the probable route on the large-scale map of the Whitechapel district fixed to the wall. ‘Mitre Square here, body found at ten minutes to two or thereabouts by PC Watkins. The killer would ’ave gone down this passage here, Church Passage, onto Duke Street, along Stoney Lane and over Hounsditch, up Middlesex Street a yard or two, Wentworth Street and here on the corner of Goulston Street where he threw down the cloth. He must’ve practically run right past you. Are you sure you didn’t see nobody? Anybody scurrying by suspicious like?’
‘No sir, I didn’t see anybody. And that cloth was definitely not there at 2.20,’ repeated Long adamantly. ‘Definitely!’
‘Aye well, be that as it may, the top brass will want to be talking to you and looking at this writing of yours, so you’d best take us on over there and show me. The City Police will be involved an’ all, being as how Mitre Square comes under their jurisdiction. Make sure you stick to your story, lad, else there could be big trouble.’
FRAU BAUMHOFF PICKED UP HER LODGER’S SHIRT from the floor, preparing to take it down to washroom in the rear yard and launder it as requested. As she did so she noticed that the garment was heavily bloodstained and a sudden chill; like the fingers of an ice- cold corpse trailed down her spine. The whole street, the whole of Whitechapel, London, was in uproar over the killings of Catherine Eddowes and Elizabeth Stride. Frau Baumhoff already had had vague suspicions about her strange lodger and his nocturnal comings and goings the night of the murders and now this; a heavily blood soaked shirt. Deeply concerned she showed the shirt to her neighbour, Mrs Agnes Pickles who immediately advised Frau Baumhoff to call the police.
THE COMMISSIONER OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE, Sir Charles Warren grimaced in distaste at the words scrawled on the wall of No 108 Goulston Street. It was five o’clock in the morning, the dawn light had not yet broken and air was chill, with a sharp wind that scurried impatiently along the dew damp street.
Around Warren stood a number of other senior police officers, including Collingwood, Thomas Arnold the Head of H (Whitechapel) division, Superintendent West and Inspectors Reid and Pinhorn from Commercial Street, Inspector Abberline from Central Office of Scotland Yard and Inspectors Moore and Andrews, also from Scotland Yard CID. Also there were a number of City Police officers, including Inspector McWilliam, Head of the City Detective Department, who earlier taken the scrap of apron to Golden Lane morgue and confirmed that it matched the apron worn by the Mitre Square victim. Flanagan stood to the rear, carefully copying the graffiti into his notebook, ensuring that the juxtaposition of the words was exactly as written on the wall.
Warren read the writing once more before ordering that it be immediately obliterated.
‘I want this removed and I want it removed immediately. This vile message can only serve to inflame feelings against the Jewish population, which may well result in strife. In rioting no less. Have it washed away at once.’
‘Sir!’ protested Collingwood, ‘It may be valuable evidence.’
‘Evidence? Evidence of what, Collingwood? Evidence that somebody cannot spell Jews correctly?’‘It may have been written by the killer.’
‘I do not see that he has signed his name so of what possible use can it be?’
‘It may be possible to compare the writing on the wall against the writing of a suspect.’
‘Do you honestly imagine, Collingwood, that whom-ever wrote this … filth … actually used his own hand? Unless specifically asked, Collingwood, please keep your absurd notions to yourself.’
Superintendent West smirked at Collingwood’s rebuke and whispered something behind his hand to Pinhorn who sniggered in turn. Collingwood ignored them both, incensed that potential evidence was about to be destroyed. He tried once more. ‘At least, Sir, let us at least photograph the writing. It will only take an hour or so to bring a photographer here.’
‘Within the hour, Collingwood, there will be a large concourse of people going about their business, many of whom will pass by this way. In the present state of excitement it is dangerous to the safety of the Jews to leave it for all to view.’
‘With respect, sir, I disagree.’
Warren bristled, his moustache quivering in indignation. ‘With respect, sir,’ he snapped,’ you will report to my office at …’ Warren consulted a morocco bound pocket diary, ‘Four o’clock tomorrow afternoon when this and other matters relating to your performance will be discussed in some detail.’
Chapter 26
OFFICE OF THE METROLPOLITAN POLICE COMMISSIONER
MONDAY OCTOBER 1ST, 1888
‘TWO MURDERS IN ONE NIGHT, COLLINGWOOD! TWO!’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Do you know that Her Majesty the Queen herself telephoned the Home Office this afternoon to express her outrage at the killings?’
‘No sir, I did not know that.’
‘Her Majesty no less! And Mister Henry Matthews, the Home Secretary, has already telephoned me to enquire what progress has been made in your so far futile enquiries
and demanding to know what steps have been undertaken to prevent further such atrocities. All I could tell him was that despite all the extra patrols, despite all the extra vigilance, despite the area of his operation being confined to the limits of Whitechapel, despite all this, this fiend has been able to carry out four murders right under our very noses. Is that not so?’
‘Sir, we do have a very good lead on a suspect who left blood soaked clothing with his landlady not far from the site of the Stride killing. The house is being watched for his return and there are other leads on the suspect we are following.’
‘He is probably a butcher, Collingwood; a man who has just killed two women in one night is not about to give his landlady his bloody clothing to wash, is he? Talk some sense man.’
‘Sir, it has not been established that the killings were carried out by the same killer. I am very much of the opinion that the killings on Saturday night of Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes are not related.’
‘I have told you before Collingwood, keep your absurd and unfounded opinions to yourself; the notion that there are two murderers out and about stalking the streets of Whitechapel at one and the same time is absurd in the extreme.’
Collingwood stood to attention before Sir Charles Warren’s immaculately laid out desk as the Commissioner continued to berate him. ‘You were appointed to a specific task, Collingwood, and so far as I can see you have spectacularly failed in that task. Against my better judgement and purely on the advice of Mister Monro, you were tasked with tracking down the escaped murderer Sinistrari. Is that not so?’
‘Yes, Commissioner.’
‘And you have failed in that task, is that not also so?’
‘Yes, Commissioner.’ No other answer was possible.
‘Not only have you singularly failed to apprehend Sinistrari, Collingwood, but rather, by your failure you have permitted him to carry out even yet more killings,’ Warren’s voice rose in pitch as little speckles of indignant spittle sparkled in his thick white moustache. Collingwood could feel his own temper beginning to rise.
‘With respect, Sir,’ he said between gritted teeth, ‘there is no evidence, no evidence at all, to suggest that Sinistrari is responsible for the Whitechapel killings.’
‘Oh, so you are saying that we have three killers all stalking the streets of London, is that correct?’ Warren asked sarcastically, his voice pitched even higher in incredulity.
‘I believe that the killing of Stride is unconnected with any of the other Whitechapel murders. The method is entirely inconsistent with the killings of Polly Nicholls, Annie Chapman and Catherine Eddowes. I am inclined to think that Stride was more likely attacked by someone she knew, Michael Kidney, for one, the man she lived with is known to us for the violence of his temper and his readiness to commit grievous bodily harm.’
Warren picked up a piece of white card from his desk and thrust it as Collingwood. ‘Is that so, Inspector, then I suggest you read this.’
This, was a postcard, written in red ink It read:
I wasn’t codding dear old Boss when I gave you the tip, you’ll hear about saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow double event this time number one squealed a bit couldn’t finish straight off. had not time to get ears for police thanks for keeping last letter back till I got to work again.
Jack the Ripper.
The postcard was postmarked the same day and addressed to the Central News Agency, as had the previous Dear Boss letter. The Daily News had that day printed the text of that letter in their morning edition.
Warren looked up at Collingwood with a glint of malicious triumph on his face. ‘This missive is quite clearly from the killer himself and specifically refers to a ‘double event’; unless it was from the killer himself, how could he have known about the double murder? Eh? Answer me that, sir,’ he barked.
‘The whole of London must have known that there were two killings on Saturday night, early Sunday morning. This ‘missive’, as you call it sir, is written after the event and does not contain anything not already known to the world at large. It is actually postmarked with this morning’s date.’
‘Do not gainsay me, sir, snapped Warren irritably, banging his fist down, disturbing the military precision of the papers lined up in columns across his desk like a battle formation. Fussily he lined up the columns of documents in order once again. ‘It is abundantly clear that Sinistrari, whom you have allowed to slip through your fingers on at least two occasions, is responsible for the Whitechapel killings. All the Whitechapel killings, Collingwood,’ he added with heavy emphasis to make his point. ‘It is also clear that the killer and the perpetrator of this letter, and the previous one, are one and the same i.e. Edward Sinistrari.’
Collingwood tried once again to express his line of reasoning. ‘With respect, sir, the killings perpetrated by Sinistrari were horrific and certainly involved mutilation of the victims; but they were ritual killings, sir. Ritual! That is the key to those killings. Killings that were carried out with precision as part of some vile rite, carefully planned and executed and although the poor girls died in the most dreadful manner it is possible to imagine, they were not mutilated in the same manner as the Whitechapel victims. The Whitechapel murders were the exact opposite, frenzied in execution, opportunistic in nature and with portions of the body removed. The Crucifixion killings by Sinistrari did not involve the removal of organs. I must repeat, sir, I do not believe Edward Sinistrari is the Whitechapel killer.’
‘So you say, Collingwood, so you say but when Sinistrari murdered Doctor Pasha Rose in Newgate whilst making his escape from the gallows, he did remove organs, did he not? He removed Rose’s heart, liver and kidneys, as I recall?’
‘Yes Commissioner, that is correct. However, the other major difference between the murders is that Sinistrari threw the bodies of his victims into the river, the Whitechapel killer left them where he had killed them.’
‘The river does not run through Whitechapel, Collingwood,’ snapped Warren pedantically. Collingwood gave up, not even bothering to point out that the river ran less than a mile away from the site of the killings. Against such an obdurate closed mind, Collingwood could say little else. Warren was convinced that Sinistrari had personally carried out the Jack the Ripper murders and nothing that Collingwood might suggest was going to change Warren’s rigid convictions.
‘However, be that as it may, Collingwood, I have not summoned you here to carry on a semantic debate. I called you here because I am seriously displeased with your lack of progress in apprehending the fiend Sinistrari.’ Collingwood was about to interject, but Warren held up a hand to silence him. ‘I believe that your ordeal at the hands of Sinistrari – and the death of your sergeant, Sergeant Gimli?’
‘Gimlet., sir, Sergeant Herbert Gimlet.’
‘Pray do not interrupt me again, Collingwood,’ the Commissioner said coldly. Outside, on the window ledge of Warren’s office, Collingwood could see a pair of London sparrows squabbling over a piece of stale bread, plucking it out from each other beak in turn, before finally the piece of bread spun away from both of them and fell to the ground. Collingwood felt so weary, all he wanted to do was close his eyes and drift away into dreamless sleep. Warren’s bitter words washed over him unheard. ‘Four weeks to resolve … resignation … retirement.’
‘Are you even listening to me, man?’ Warren’s angry voice penetrated through the mists of fatigue.
‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir.’
As I was saying, Inspector, I believe that your ordeal at the hands of Sinistrari and the …’ Warren waved his hand about in the air as he sought a suitable word, ‘and the unfortunate death of your sergeant has clouded your judgement. I consider that you are possibly close to a mental collapse. To be precise, Collingwood, I believe you are no longer fitted to carry out the appointed task … or indeed to continue to serve in the Metropolitan Police force.’
Collingwood heard the words but they had no impact on him. He needed a pipe of tobacco and possibly a l
arge scotch to knit together the skeins of reality that seemed to have unravelled in his mind. He stared vacantly at a spot beyond Warren’s shoulder, noticing a small stain on the wallpaper, a faint discolouration of grease as if the Commissioner leant back and rested his head there. Warren’s words came to him as though through a thick fog, without focus or direction, without meaning or sense.
‘However, Collingwood, I am not an unreasonable man and do concede that you have carried out very many lines of enquiry and most probably know more about Sinistrari than anyone else. Therefore, but not without considerable reluctance, I have decided to give you one last chance to salvage your career and track down Sinistrari and bring him to justice once and for all. You have four weeks, Inspector, four weeks to find this man. Thereafter, unless you have apprehended Sinistrari, I shall expect your resignation to be on my desk no later than Friday 2nd November. No, let me be generous, I will give you one week extra. On Friday 9th November, unless you have apprehended Sinistrari you will resign and retire. You may state ill health as the reason. Is that understood?’
