Whitechapel Conspiracy

“Of course you do,” Remus agreed, nodding his head, his eyes glittering. The rain was heavier, and warm. “But do you know what they did? Because if you do, the next thing I know I’ll be in one of these alleys with my throat cut as well.” He took a step back as he said it, almost as if he thought Tellman might make a sudden lunge for him.

“Are you saying Abberline and Warren were involved?” Tellman demanded.

Remus’s contempt was withering. “Of course they were! How else do you think it was all covered up?”

It was absurd. “That’s ridiculous!” Tellman said aloud, ignoring the rain, which was now soaking them both. “Why would someone like Abberline want to cover up murder? He’d have made a name for himself that would have gone down in history if he’d solved that case. The man who caught the Whitechapel murderer could have called his own price.”

“There are some things bigger even than that,” Remus said darkly, but the tension and the excitement were back in his face again, and his eyes were bright and wild. The water was running down his face, plastering his hair to his head. Over the rooftops the thunder rumbled again. “This is bigger than fame, Tellman, or money, believe me. If I’m right, and I can prove it, it will change England forever.”

“Rubbish!” Tellman denied it savagely. He wanted it to be false.

Remus turned away.

Tellman grabbed his arm again, bringing him up short. “Why would Abberline conceal the worst crimes that have ever happened in London? He is a decent man.”

“Loyalty.” Remus said the word hoarsely. “There are loyalties deeper than life or death, loyalties deep as hell itself.” He put his hand to his throat. “Some things a man … some men … will sell their own souls for. Abberline is one, Warren’s another, and the coachman Netley—”

“What Netley?” Tellman asked. “You mean Nickley?”

“No, his name’s Netley. When he said Nickley at the Westminster Hospital, he was lying.”

“What’s he got to do with them? He drove the coach around Whitechapel. He knew who Jack was, and why he did what he did.”

“Of course he did … he still does. And I daresay he’ll go to the grave telling no one.”

“Why did he try to kill the child—twice?”

Remus smiled, his lips drawn wide over his teeth. “As I said before, you know nothing.”

Tellman was desperate. The thought of Pitt’s being thrown out of office in Bow Street because he had stuck to the truth infuriated him. Charlotte was left alone, worried and frightened, and Gracie was determined to help, no matter what the danger or the cost. The thought of the whole monstrous injustice of it all was intolerable.

“I know where to find a lot of senior policemen,” he said very quietly. “Not just Abberline, or Commissioner Warren, but a fair few more as well, all the way up, if I have to. Those two might be retired, but others aren’t.”

Remus was ashen white, his eyes wild. “You … wouldn’t! You’d set them on me, knowing what they did? Knowing what they’re hiding?”

“I don’t know!” Tellman responded. “Not unless you tell me.”

Remus gulped and ran the back of his hand over his mouth. His eyes flickered with fear. “Come with me. Let’s get out of the rain. Come to the pub across there.” He pointed over the road.

Tellman was glad to agree. His mouth was dry and he had already walked a considerable distance. The rain did not bother him. They were both soaked to the skin.

Lightning flashed in a jagged fork, and thunder cracked overhead.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in a quiet corner with glasses of ale and the smell of sawdust and wet clothes all around them.

“Right,” Tellman began. “Who did you meet in Regent’s Park? And if I catch you in one lie, you’re in trouble.”

“I don’t know,” Remus said instantly, his face pained. “And so help me God, that’s the truth. The man who put me onto all this, right from the beginning. I admit I wouldn’t tell who he is if I knew, but I don’t.”

“Not a good start, Mr. Remus,” Tellman warned him.

“I don’t know!” Remus protested, a kind of desperation in his voice.

“What about the man in Hyde Park that you quarreled with and accused of hiding a conspiracy? Another mysterious informant?”

“No. That was Abberline.”

Tellman knew Abberline had been in charge of the Whitechapel murders investigation. Had he concealed evidence, even that he had known the identity of the Ripper, and not revealed it? If so, his crime was monstrous, and Tellman could think of no explanation that justified it.

Remus was watching him.

“Why would Abberline hide it?” he asked again. Then he framed the question that was beating in his mind. “What has Adinett got to do with it? Did he know too?”

“I think so.” Remus nodded. “He was certainly onto something. He was at Cleveland Street, asking at the tobacconist’s, and at Sickert’s place.”

Now Tellman was confused. “Who is Sickert?”

“Walter Sickert, the artist. It was at his studio they met. That was in Cleveland Street then,” Remus answered.

Tellman guessed. “The lovers? Annie Crook, who was Catholic, and the young man?”