August 31st 2013 marks the 125th anniversary of the first Jack the Ripper murder and yet still the case remains unsolved. Whitechapel Real Time aims to portray Victorian society during 1888 in an accurate and engaging way, placing this tragic series of events in a wider context.
Over the next ten weeks, Peter Thurgood will be placing himself in the shoes of Chief Inspector Abberline to imagine how he would have felt and reacted as the Ripper investigation progressed.
Saturday September 1 1888
Not a bloody hansom anywhere when you want one, and my left leg had started to play up again, it’s the varicose vein, always seems to flare up during warm weather. I am only 45 years old for God’s sake, and there I was limping along like an old man.
Still ended up getting to H Division by 7.45 am, not as early as I wanted but at least it would give me some time to read up on what notes they had before making my way to the poor lass’ inquest. The desk sergeant showed me where my office was and I immediately took relief in sitting down and thumbing through the more detailed notes on the murder that were on my desk, not that there was too much to go on, just general reports from the officers who were first on the scene when the body was discovered just a matter of hours earlier.
Ripped, slashed, cut, blood, words that repeated themselves time after time in the reports but still didn’t tell me much. Well it wouldn’t be long before I was at the inquest and hopefully finding out more.
As I opened the door to leave my office a small group of officers had lined up to meet me, some of them didn’t look much older than boys straight of school, but they had apparently all been handpicked as a part of my team, so let’s just hope they can do their job. I quickly introduced myself “Haven’t got time for briefings or anything else at the moment” I told them, “just use your initiative until I get back, I have to be at the Whitechapel Working Lad's Institute, in 15 minutes, where the Inquest into Polly Nichols’ death is being held, err, can someone call me a hansom?”
I arrived at the Whitechapel Working Lad's Institute with minutes to spare, only to find that the inquest had now been adjourned until Monday, September 3rd. I don’t understand these people, they have a corpse, and I understand they have a post-mortem account, what more do they want in order to do their job?
Sunday September 2 1888
I had set up an early briefing meeting with my team at the station this morning as we really needed to get cracking on this case before any potential witnesses forgot exactly what they had seen or what times they had seen anything. I was up early but no eggs, bacon, sausages, toast and tea, as was usual for Sunday breakfast, for Emma wasn’t very happy with me, to say the least. In all the years we had known each other, this was the first time I had ever let her down and not accompanied her to church, but what was I supposed to do, church could wait, but witnesses memories can’t?
Seems that my new team are not so young and inexperienced as I first thought. By the time I arrived at the station they were all there and ready with their evidence. Not that it was exactly illuminating; we had the mutilated body of a prostitute, detailed notes of her injuries, and when and where she had been found, but not one single suggestion or clue as to a possible suspect.
Monday September 3 1888
I attended the Polly Nichols inquest. Detective Inspector Spratling from Bethnal Green was called, as well as Dr Llewellyn, who had made the initial examination of Nichol’s body on the night of her death. There was also a number of local people, all of whose statements I had already read, and knew almost by heart.
Thursday September 6 1888
Polly Nichols funeral was held today; I did not attend.
Friday September 7 1888
By this time, I had already come to the conclusion that the first two murders, of Elizabeth Smith and Martha Tabram were completely separate incidents and were not connected in any way to the Nichols murder, which I now suspected to be a one off murder.
The press however, had different ideas, and started turning out headlines describing an ongoing series of murders. One newspaper even suggested a single killer was the culprit of all three murders, with a headline, ‘Maniac Killer at large’
I felt like paying one particular newspaper a visit and warning them about publishing stories based upon nothing more than their imagination. I would think it over during the weekend.
Saturday September 8 1888
Another early morning hammering on the door of my home, 6.45 a.m. to be precise. Another prostitute, Annie Chapman, had been found murdered, just before 6:00 a.m. in the back yard of 29 Hanbury Street, Spitalfields.
I was at the scene by 7.30 a.m. along with the usual crowds of siteseers, and for some reason unbeknown to me at the time, several other detectives and officers from other stations. It was already daylight and from what I could see, several of my team were still engaged in searching the yard, although by this time, the body had already been examined by Doctor George Bagster Phillips, whom it seems sent for an ambulance and reinforcements from the Commercial Street Police Station; He also notified Scotland Yard, which accounts for all the unknown police officers on the scene. Chapman’s body was then taken to the Whitechapel Workhouse Infirmary Mortuary in Eagle Street off of Old Montague Street.
I must say that I was very proud of the way my team are handling this case and in particular, the search of the yard. They have come up with two clues, which I thought could be vital to the case; the first is a bloodstained envelope, which was found in the corner of the yard, with the crest of the Sussex Regiment embossed upon the front. The second is a leather apron, which was found near a water tap, in the yard.
It looks like my persistence with the team is starting to pay off, no more cock-ups like the bloodstains that were removed from the scene in the Polly Nichols case. I did find something myself, which was two brightly polished farthings, two brass rings, and some other coins. I didn’t take too much notice of it at first, until I found out that where I found them, all neatly laid out by the way, was exactly where the body had been lying at her feet in fact.
This latest edition to the murder list definitely ruled out paying an angry visit to the newspaper office. Within hours of the news getting out we had reporters almost besieging the station and demanding action. One of them practically screamed at me, “If you are the detective you claim to be Mr Abberline, why have you not come up with one single suspect yet?” he demanded to know.
I am usually a very placid man but on this occasion I could feel my blood boiling and I pushed my way through the throng of reporters and stuck my face so close to his that our noses actually touched, “You obviously don’t come from this neck of woods” I growled at him, “for if you did you would know a bit about this neighbourhood, about the poorly lit little back streets and alleys, about the back to back living conditions of these people who sometimes live up to twelve in one room, and about these poor unfortunate women, who often have to sleep standing, slumped across a length of rope”
I could feel my heart beating faster and faster as I spoke to him, I could see his lips trembling as he fumbled in his mind for what his answer would be, he then flicked his head back in a defiant gesture and asked what the hell that was to do with my poor detective work?
I’m sorry to say that I lunged at him, and would have punched him on the jaw, had two of my detectives not reached me in time and pulled me away from him. “These people” I shouted, don’t trust us, they don’t trust anyone, and you know why that is? It’s because of people like you, making up idiotic scare stories in your newspapers, now if you don’t mind I am going to get on with my work, trying to catch this killer, and I suggest you go back to your office and get on with your work, which is supposed to be reporting the truth”
As the days dragged on, the pressure upon me seemed to increase from all sides. Even Chief Inspector Donald Swanson from Scotland Yard started asking me when I was going to present the public with a major suspect. Don’t they understand? I am not a conjurer; I can only produce a suspect when and if we have major evidence against someone. I had my men doing house-to-house searches and questioning literally dozens of witnesses, and possible suspects.
If anything could go wrong, it did, even my own team’s notes. I had distinctly told the officer who was with me when I found the coins to make a note of it, and he did, but instead of writing it down as I had told him, he noted them as ‘assorted coins and brass rings close to the body of the deceased’. This wasn’t evidence any more, it was just a simple find, in a yard!
Peter Thurgood is the author of Abberline: The Man Who Hunted Jack the Ripper, the first and only biography of Frederick George Abberline, the man who led the hunt for Jack the Ripper.