Chapter 3(Gravesend, Sept. 28, 1888)

Gravesend wasn’t part of his patch but Chief Inspector Frederick Abberline of the Metropolitan Police wasn’t here strictly in an official capacity. Well, truth be told, he was and he wasn’t. The Kentish town sprawled out in a haphazard fashion along the banks of the Thames River, providing a popular spot for the holiday crowds as well as the thousands of immigrants and troops that passed through the Tilbury docks every year. But Abberline wasn’t here for sightseeing, and the warm autumn breeze did little to sooth his trepidation as he gazed out onto the gray waters.

The newly-built clock tower looming above Harmer Street struck a melancholy note, marking the passing of the hour, and he thought back to the conversation he’d had with Her Royal Majesty in Buckingham Palace on the 7th. It was as if he were recalling something that transpired decades ago, not a mere three weeks. But much had happened since he was sent over from Scotland Yard. And yet, nothing had happened.

The Chief Inspector’s temporary status as one of the lead investigators in the Whitechapel Murders, as they’d come to be known, was the only reason he was given a 30 minute audience with the Old Girl herself and not some bookish underling. Being so honored had mildly astounded the 45 year-old policeman, but what surprised him even more was the fact that she was tacitly amenable to his hare-brained scheme.

Fred Abberline was professionally conflicted. He’d concocted and refined a plan, of which Her Majesty had conditionally approved out of a mutual lack of confidence in both Scotland Yard and the London Police, should they

be involved. Now, just a couple of short weeks later, this plan was the only thing standing between the Empire’s mightiest city and complete chaos. The aging policeman gritted his teeth and squinted into the sunrise, eventually detecting a slowly growing bump on the horizon, with perhaps a puff of smoke above it. He fumbled at his breast pocket and pulled the elegant fob watch from his vest, noting the time with satisfaction. Phase one of the plan was already well underway and on schedule.

There were many reasons why he should’ve trusted in his own colleagues and superiors. But since Scotland Yard had given him this new patch, his subordinates had given him little, if any, reason to continue investing his confidence in them. In spite of issuing what he knew were commonsense, even innovative, orders and injunctions, their execution was another thing entirely. Now was not the time for substandard police work.

Even before it had become obvious they were dealing with an individual, a pattern killer as Abberline had termed it, the suspects brought in for questioning were ludicrous, for the most part. The Leather Apron one, John Pizer, after the Annie Chapman murder, was just the start. Speculations and suspects multiplied like rabbits even amongst the police that, privy to the facts of the case, should’ve known better. It was a doctor, a butcher, a Jewish sochet, an Indian, a barber. If one were to seriously entertain the endless spectrum of suspects, they would’ve included virtually everyone in London. It was a classic paranoid instinct in the absence of any identifying evidence, speculation ran wild and almost no one was above suspicion. He was determined to focus their energies without having to rely on Lusk’s new Vigilance Committee, or a rabble of similarly dangerous vigilantes and amateurs.

Yet getting amateurs involved was what he’d proposed to Her Majesty. After thinking on it for a good long while, Abberline realized each of the parties who were on their way to London at this moment would have a stake in this bloody business. It had already been speculated that an Indian left behind from Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West show last year had been the Whitechapel Killer, another name scratched onto the long list of half-hearted conjecture and speculation. This, no doubt, would make Mr. Cody very concerned indeed if such a rumor were to gain traction and ruin his reputation and future business prospects, and the great showman certainly had a lot to lose.

The 7th of September would forever remain frozen in Abberline’s memory as a day of both tremendous professional significance, and the beginning of the end for the life he had known, and he let his mind wander back to the events of that fateful day.

A sunny day in early September marked Abberline’s first visit to the Royal grounds. The gleaming façade of Buckingham palace, rising with icy magnificence above the City of Westminster, struck the Chief Inspector deep in his heart. The symbol of the Empire, home to the greatest Queen in British history, gave the policeman a sense of comfort that belied his nerves. The fact that Her Majesty had broken off her stay at Balmoral Castle several hundred miles north only served to stir up the butterflies that danced in his gut. Abberline clenched his fists with determination and set off with a steady pace toward the grand entrance, where half a dozen armed soldiers stood waiting for him.

The Royal Guard, each of whom had eyed the Chief Inspector with suspicion, ushered him through to an opulent waiting room, where the hot scents of the smoke stacks and summer crowds outside were replaced with the smell of cold stone and polished marble. The interior of the palace was surprisingly cold considering the time of year, and Abberline welcomed the kinder temperature as he took a seat and waited. Within 30 minutes, he was called through to the Throne Room, where the Empress of India, Queen Victoria herself, awaited his arrival.

The monarch sat still upon the crimson dais, underneath a tall red velvet canopy and an impossibly large chandelier that filled the Chief Inspector’s view as it hung magnificently from the tall ceilings. As was her custom, Her Majesty wore only black, dressed for mourning since the death of her beloved husband, Albert, some 27 years prior. Since then, one throne remained alone in the great room and unoccupied for most of the year. Abberline heard the court official close the heavy door behind him, and he stepped forward slowly, crossing the great expanse with methodical care. He drew close to his queen and knelt, feeling the soft carpet under his knee. Not a word was spoken for several seconds, and the Throne Room rang with a deafening silence the Chief Inspector heartily wished would end quickly. Soon enough, the leader of the Empire spoke – her voice calm and resigned, despite the urgency of the matter at hand.

“I received your confidential correspondence, Inspector Abberline, and thought upon it very carefully before consenting to grant you an audience.”

“I am forever in your debt, Your Majesty.” The Chief Inspector’s voice was raspy and his words caught in his throat. He silently cursed his nerves and prayed the slip had gone unnoticed.

“Let us dispense with the formalities. Your idea, on the face of it, is not without its merits. Naturally, I cannot be seen as publicly endorsing or revealing such a scheme. Whether or not it results in a satisfactory conclusion, it is fraught with risk to yourself for you would be risking the confidence of your men just as they are failing your confidence in them.”

“I understand, ma’am.”“Yet, perhaps circumventing the two police

departments and investigating these dreadful East End murders in a less than conventional manner is precisely what is called for. In spite of my education and experience in matters of state, I admit I am not as pragmatic as you in matters of the enforcement of the laws of the realm and the Corporation of London.”

“Perhaps you are wise to accede to this commoner’s experience in matters of law enforcement, ma’am,” Abberline took a moment to look up into the Queen’s solemn eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“That is why I will give you my tacit consent to conduct this investigation as you wish to proceed. All the same, you will have a close eye kept upon you at most if not all times.”

“Of course, ma’am. Understood.”“Keep in mind, however, you will be responsible at

all times for the outsiders you’ll be bringing into the fold of this investigation. While I greatly admire Mr. Cody and his retinue as American western performers, I will not have gunplay and mayhem occurring in the streets of the East End. Is that understood, Inspector?”

“Yes, ma’am. I will ensure they will be briefed on our laws and customs in case they were not apprised of such during their last visit here.”

“And I need not belabor the obvious injunction they keep as invisible a profile as possible in case more unfortunates are murdered. Are we clear on that?”

Abberline was all too well aware what the “close eye” consisted of: That would be Special Branch, the investigative body created five years ago to combat the

Irish Republican Brotherhood before their remit was widened. They were responsible for matters of security across the realm as pertaining to police departments. They were part of the Metropolitan Police, the Chief Inspector’s own people, but there was little love lost between the Bobbies and upper echelons and the humorless pricks of Special Branch.

Abberline drew a deep breath and mustered his reserve. “Your Majesty, if I may be permitted to ask a frank question of you?”

“Yes, Inspector?”“Why would

ma’am give her consent, however tacit, to this rather unconventional approach?”

The Queen sighed deeply, signalling the only emotion Abberline had seen since his arrival, and she fixed him with an unwavering stare, obviously looking for just the right words.

“In spite the trappings of being the head of state of one of the mightiest empires on earth,” Her Royal Highness intoned, “deep at heart, I am no different from any other grandmother defending her grandchild from an incipient threat. I am just afforded certain... latitudes not available to other grandmothers.”

And that was all that needed to be said. Ordinarily the Queen would never have put the realm in danger of scandal lest it detonate in their faces. A scandal of this sort would completely undermine the public’s trust in the City Police and Scotland Yard if it gott out that the Queen herself, let alone a Chief Inspector, had no such confidence in them. However, the Whitechapel Murderer, who would shortly be rechristened by a much more memorable soubriquet, wasn’t your ordinary killer. The Queen did not need to hear herself say out loud what was on both their minds.

Abberline recalled Prince Eddie, known as “Collars and Cuffs” by certain wags, had already had his royal name bandied about by members of the press that set wagging the tongues of those in the East End. The growing suspicion was that Prince Eddie, son of the Duke of York and second in line to the Throne, could be involved in some way with the killings of prostitutes in the squalid East End. And now, in the Throne Room of the most powerful nation on Earth, Abberline knew what had to be done.

The Chief Inspector broke from his reverie, and the memories of Buckingham palace faded into nothingness as the riotous Gravesend crowds began to gather at the docks. While the greeting parties slowly assembled, Abberline noted that the small bump in the horizon was now significantly larger. The steamer brayed in the distance, a lonely cry in the watery wilderness. He steeled himself for his first meeting with Buffalo Bill Cody and hoped his American savages respected the wishes of a Queen and a police authority to which they were not loyal nor bound to obey.