Fidelity Fidelity Fidelity

By Anthony Plew

Many of the suspects that previous authors wrote about
knew the victims, as well as police officers involved in
the investigation and other persons of notoriety. This
book explores those relationships and names a suspect
that has never surfaced before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452092409

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

The old man was on his hands and knees, and his thinning grey hair was in disarray about his flushed face. Occasionally, he grunted or groaned. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead, but not to the point of running down his face. His knees were cratered into the soil, and his hands extended from his torso, reaching out to the soft earth. With his large, right hand, he clenched a fistful of dirt and removed it to the side of the hole he created. As if orchestrated, his left hand clutched a bedding plant, which he unceremoniously dropped into the hole. Just as quickly, his right hand pushed the dirt at the base of the plant and pressed hard, eliminating any air pockets. The ritual continued, and, after several minutes, he stopped to gaze at his labors. A smile came upon his face. The bedding area had been transformed into a beautiful wonderment of color. However, after a few seconds, the smile that gave him pleasure vanished.

Emma and her bloody plants. This is a hell of a way for a man to spend his retirement and these so called golden years.

He didn’t hear the footsteps of a person approaching from behind him. Suddenly, a male voice spoke out.

Detective Frederick Abberline? Abberline was taken by surprise. Still on his knees, he quickly crabbed forward, spun to confront the voice, and raised his torso straight up. However, he now clutched a garden trowel in his right hand. A scowl came over his face, and, in an agitated voice, he glared the stranger.

Just what in the bloody hell are you doing sneaking up on someone? Abberline pointed the trowel towards the person’s mid-section. The man was startled and took a step back, as he outstretched his arms to show Abberline he was unarmed and wasn’t a threat. He was amazed that Abberline, even at his age and portly size, could move so fast and be so agile. He also felt a twinge of panic and fear because of the face Abberline made, but it was his eyes that transfixed him. Never had he seen a look like that before. After several seconds of trying to recover his composure, he gazed down and in a soft-spoken, yet slightly quivering, voice said,

My apologies, sir. It was certainly not my intent to startle you. I merely wish to know if you are Detective Frederick Abberline or the gardner?

Abberline took offense at being referred to as a gardener but maintained his gaze. Irritated, and in a rough voice, asked, Who be wanting to know and for what purpose do you have for Detective Abberline?

Once again sir, my apologies. I truly meant you no harm. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Robert Tarr, and I’m a free lance reporter. I was hoping to conduct an interview with Detective Abberline. Are you him? Abberline relaxed and stood up, brushing the dirt from his pants and hands. He no longer perceived Robert as a threat, but he still remained cautious and skeptical. Robert extended his right hand. Abberline looked down at the hand, and then looked Robert in the eyes.

No, I’m not Detective Fred Abberline. I’m Mr. Fred Abberline, retired from Scotland Yard. I’m proud to say that I’m a civilian. With a half grin on his face and looking Robert in the eyes, Abberline reached out and clasped his hand. He placed his thumb on the backside of Robert’s hand and squeezed. Robert pulled his hand back and shook it. That hurt! Why did you squeeze so hard?

Sorry, Bob. Just an old fashioned way I do things. You can always tell the mark of a man by the grip of his handshake.

Since you called me Bob, and we’re getting acquainted, do you mind if I call you Fred?

When I was on the job, those I came into contact with called me Detective Abberline. My friends call me Fred. You may refer to me as Mr. Abberline. My career ended a long time ago, and, since then, I’ve led a quiet, peaceful life. I don’t grant interviews, and I don’t have anything to say to the press. I bid you good day, and now be gone with you. Robert stood his ground, which slightly impressed Abberline.

When I first heard your name spoken in my prior interviews, I must say I was instantly impressed. You’re right. It has been many years since you retired, but people in the East End of London remember you, and you’ve become a folk hero. I have researched your background and read as many of your reports as I could get my hands on. My attention was particularly drawn to your involvement in the investigation of the brutal murders that were committed by Jack the Ripper. I only have a few questions, and then I shall be on my way. Abberline had not heard that name or thought of the Ripper in many years, and he shuddered. This was one case he did not want to discuss, and he became anxious to get Robert to leave.

I’ve explained to you, Robert, I don’t grant interviews and I don’t talk to the press. I’ve no further comment about the killer you speak of. Every aspect of that case is in my reports at Scotland Yard. If you’ve read them, you know as much as I do. Robert was not an experienced reporter, but he did have an uncanny ability to read people’s faces and body language. He knew he had touched a nerve with Abberline, so he became more assertive.

All right I’ll leave if you want me to, but, before I go, I just have something I want to say. If you still have no comment, then I’ll get my information elsewhere. Abberline was just about to physically remove him from his property. However, his curiosity got the better of him, a trait he had had from his years as a detective. Besides, he wanted to know just how much Robert really knew, since he was so insistent. He cocked his head slightly to one side and a slight grin appeared. An old friend of mine used to do that. I just happened to think of him just now. Are you on the square with me, as to why you’re here? Abberline paused and studied Robert’s face. He didn’t see a reaction. I’ll entertain your persistence for one minute. After that, I want you gone, and, if you ever come back, I’ll thrash you within an inch of your nosy life. Do you understand what I’ve said?

Yes, I do, and I think that’s more than fair. I do believe that you’ll have a definite interest in what I’m about to say. Robert then paused to collect his thoughts and peak Abberline’s interest. The few wasted seconds of his time limit were worth it. Jack the Ripper didn’t act alone and some of his victims didn’t meet the end that was reported in the newspapers. The persons named as the Ripper, as the most viable suspects, are as innocent as a newborn baby. The Ripper isn’t dead, in prison, or moved away, as Scotland Yard would have the public believe. Abberline scoffed under his breath, as he slowly shook his head. He paused and then looked back up into Robert’s eyes.

I would say you’re daft, man. We have no clue to his identity today, let alone all those years ago. The Yard is content that, with the murder of the last victim, the killing stopped. This indicated to us that he had, in fact, died, was incarcerated, or moved away. I feel he’s deceased. If he were in the prison system, a personality type such as his wouldn’t go unnoticed. Just for the sake of argument, let’s assume he moved away. Again, the killings would resume because of his personality or a renewal of his previous motives. We checked with many countries, including America, and killings like those that we experienced never occurred elsewhere. Abberline pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the face. You’re time is about up, Robert. Anything else?

The grisly murders only stopped after several key players, shall we call them, moved onto greener pastures, if you catch my subtle hint. Abberline closed the lid on his watch, placed it back in his pocket, and yawned, as he turned to walk away. He’s grabbing at straws and has no proof, Abberline thought to himself. Abberline was good at reading people also and had honed this ability to a fine skill during his career with Scotland Yard.

Listen to me carefully. What you’re trying to propose is your theory, and it’s baseless at that. Let this go, and don’t make a fool out of yourself. You’re young and could have a fine career ahead of you. The fiend acted alone. The Yard developed several good suspects but never had enough solid evidence to get an indictment. As for the unfortunate victims, trust me they lie cold and still in their graves. I’ve been patient with you, but your time is up. I bid you good day.

Robert narrowed his eyebrows and leaned his body towards Abberline. His voice became louder and intense. Theory? Theory Mr. Abberline? Start by explaining to me why some of the victims were horribly mutilated and others weren’t. Explain to me why the medical experts say different knives were used and couldn’t agree which hand the Ripper used. Explain the witness that was accosted by two men and driven off, while one of the victims was being murdered. Explain why there are only vague descriptions of the Ripper, and, on a couple of occasions, the constables or the vigilantes were at the scene or not far from it and yet, no one saw him come or go. Explain, if you can, why your agency and several persons acting together with them destroyed key pieces of evidence and certain reports were tampered with or turned up missing from the file. Explain the witness that spoke to one of the victims several hours after her murder, yet her credibility was discounted. Tell me the woman that was butchered on Miller’s Court is the same person whose name appears on the headstone. Finally, Mr. Abberline, tell me about the post card you received months later, after her murder.

Abberline stopped and slowly turned around. Memories of the investigation began to flood his mind. Robert definitely knew some things. But how could he? Abberline decided that for the safety and well being of the many people involved, including himself, he would have to become the interviewer and take charge. Robert? Er, Bob, if you’ll allow me to call you Bob. Let me start out by saying that I apologize for being so gruff with you. Getting old isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I feel so embarrassed over this. As a sign of my good will, you may call me Fred or Detective. Maybe it’s good to get my old detective juices flowing again. Besides, if I can aid you and prevent pure rubbish from being printed about the fiend, I will help you. Bob, are you the type of man that imbibes a little Irish Whisky? Robert was taken by complete surprise. He couldn’t believe this complete change. This wasn’t the same man he met less than thirty minutes ago. He was curious and wanted to find out where Abberline was taking this.

As a matter of fact, Fred, I do enjoy a shot now and then. He waited for Abberline to lead the way to a local pub. Instead, Abberline put his arm on Bob’s shoulder and began to escort him to the back of the house. Bob tensed up and hesitated. Abberline gave him a friendly shake and smiled.

Relax, Bob. I’m not going to hurt you. I have my own private stock in the garden shed. Emma doesn’t approve of me having a snootful, so I keep my stash out here. She says it’s bad for me, but do I look bad to you? Abberline chuckled, as they continued to walk. Abberline held the shed door open, while Bob slowly entered. Abberline followed and peeked out the small window towards his house. Ah good, no sign of Emma. She seldom comes out here, but one can never tell. He walked to a brown burlap sack, opened the top, and pushed his hand down into some seeds. As he removed his hand, he clutched a long-necked bottle. He patted the bottle several times and set it on the table. Abberline then walked to a shelf and moved a box. Behind it were two glasses. Both were dusty and dirty. He blew into each of them and wiped them out with a dirty towel. Bob’s eyes grew wide, and Abberline saw his expression. Don’t worry about this. I’ve wiped them clean, and whatever is left alive in the glass will die as soon as I fill them up. Abberline let out a laugh. Please have a seat. Bob sat down at the table, and Abberline pulled his chair up and joined him. He took the bottle and pulled the cork out with his teeth and he clinked both glasses as he poured. This is the finest Irish Whisky I’ve ever had. When I was on the job, I came across this man who distilled his own spirits. He gave me a sample, and that began my love affair. He still comes by every two weeks and makes sure I’m supplied. I met him through a mutual friend. Drink up and tell me what you think! Abberline motioned to Bob with his hand. Bob slowly raised the glass to his lips, looking at Abberline over the rim. Thinking how aromatic the liquid was, Bob took a sip and could feel it burn his lips, his mouth, and his throat. This caused him to cough a couple of times. Then, something strange happened. He could feel the warmth in his belly, and it instantly spread through his body.

You’re right, Fred. This is the finest I’ve ever had. Abberline raised his glass to Bob, and then, in one gulp, the contents were gone.

Drink up, man! Don’t let it go to waste. Bob took another sip, this one longer than the first. Abberlines eyes twinkled, and a broader smile appeared on his face. Ah, I can tell you like my whisky. Abberline refilled both glasses once, then twice, and a third time. He could see the alcohol was beginning to have an impact on Bob, which is how he wanted it. Bob, when you’re researching a story are you able to see your brother in the dark as well as the light? Are you a profane man? Abberline set back in his chair and studied Bob.

I’m sorry, Fred. I don’t have the slightest clue as to what you’re talking about. What is it you’re asking me? Abberline smiled and shook his head.

Nothing Bob. Nothing at all. Abberline took another drink and encouraged Bob to do so.

Fred, I came in here of my own free will, and I expect to leave that way. I know you’re up to something. Getting me drunk will not prevent me from writing this story. If you’re planning on doing me bodily harm, I’ll press charges. If the intent, God forbid, is to silence me, permanently, you’ll never get away with it. Why do you keep stalling? You obviously know more than you’re telling, and, quite frankly, I feel you’re afraid of something. Can we quit playing these mind games and get-to-it? His face had turned red, and his voice was angry. Abberline sat motionless and looked at Bob for several seconds.

We shall, Bob, but there is nothing like a few drinks between friends before discussing business. He smiled. Getting you drunk will not make you forget and go away. Bodily harm? Ha! I wouldn’t waste the energy on you. That would only make others inquisitive and worsen matters. Murder you? I’m not an evil man. I swore to uphold the law, and that’s what I did. Besides, I wouldn’t go to the gallows over the likes of you. He paused and looked down, holding his glass with both hands, while he slowly turned it in a clockwise manner. His face had become paler, and Bob saw an expression of sadness come over his face. He slowly raised his eyes. His gaze was not directed at Bob or the wall behind him. The gaze in his eyes was distant, to a time many years ago. After what seemed an eternity, he blinked several times and spoke in a soft voice. Believe me, this is one story you don’t want to pursue or write about. I’m asking you to let sleeping dogs lie. Please, will you do that Bob?

Fred, we’ve been over this. If I do not hear it from you, then I will from someone else. Besides, there’ll always be another reporter. No, Fred, I can’t let this one go. Fred exhaled out of his nose slowly.

All right. Understand this, though. You’ll never see this story in print. People will die, starting with me. I’m old and tired, and the joys of life aren’t as strong as they used to be. Death doesn’t worry me anymore. Soon after word of the knowledge you possess gets out, I’ll be dead. They will quickly figure out where your information came from. The authorities will find my house ransacked with me lying in the middle of the floor, bludgeoned. A report will be made. They’ll claim someone broke in and surprised me. We scuffled, and I was struck. The official motive will be burglary. The story will appear all over England, but nothing will ever be done. In a few years, what happened will be forgotten. A detective, who was on top of his game, died at the hands of a common thief over property. The only problem is that won’t be the true motive. This is called ironic humor. Robert got a puzzled look on his face.

What about your wife, Emma? Fred smiled.

I never brought the job home with me, and I never discussed my cases with her. Ignorance is bliss, Bob. He leaned forward on the table. Your life is bliss, right now. If you write this story, you won’t have that luxury anymore. Fred paused to let what he said sink in. He watched as Robert swallowed hard and became slightly ashen. Fred filled both glasses. He sat back in his chair and raised his glass. Let me tell you how your obituary will read. You will try and sell your story or go to your editor. They’ll read it and say they’re excited, and they’ll get back to you. Many papers won’t publish it, and those that do will print a watered-down version. They’ll get a buzz going and get people talking about it. Then, articles will start appearing, revealing that you fabricated the whole thing and you’re nothing more than a sensationalist trying to make money and a name for yourself from the memories of the poor murdered women. They’ll say you’re trying to start a scandal and that you’re an embarrassment to your profession and the country. Public opinion will see you as a pariah. You won’t be able to get a job with any newspaper or magazine or sell any of your free lance articles. Your career as a journalist will be over. Time will pass, possibly a few weeks, maybe months. The public will forget all about your folly because they’re focused on the next story of pressing interest. Shortly after that, an article will appear with the news that you committed suicide. The manner of your death will be immaterial. They’ll write that you were depressed and ashamed over what you did and couldn’t live in disgrace. The clamoring talk in circles of friends, from the poorest to the wealthy, will be good riddance! It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving fellow! This will be your ironic humor. Fred took another drink, and Bob joined him.

I must admit, you’ve raised some concerns in me… Fred cut him off and slammed the palm of his hand on the table.

Not concerns, you idiot! Fear! Fear of what you don’t know that I do. Fear that I’m telling you the truth. Can’t you see it has been your ignorance of the facts of this case that has kept you alive, and it’ll be your fear and curiosity to learn the truth that’ll cause your demise! I’ve done everything I can to discourage you. I’m going to tell you what happened, not for my sake, but for yours and many others. When we’re finished and you walk out that door, remember that what I’ve told you will come to pass. Bobs’ heart beat faster, but Fred was right. He did have a curiosity streak, almost to a fault. He had to know the truth. There was a long pause of silence, and the room was very quiet. Fred finally sat back in his chair and cocked his head to one side. Here are the conditions. I tell the story, and you listen. There’ll be no questions or interruptions. If I see you take out your notepad and pencil and write, I’ll get up and walk away. Finally, there will be no follow-up interviews, even if you can’t remember what I’ve said. This has to be in your head only, as it has been in mine for so many years. Fred, who had been talking with his head cocked, straightened it and smirked. An old friend of mine used to do that with his head. Oh, I told you that already. Anyway, I hope and pray it gives you the same feelings I’ve felt. Do you agree to my conditions? Robert thought hard and looked around the room. This was what he came for, and it was easily in his grasp. His chance to know the true and untold story came with a hefty price tag, if Abberline is right. His thirst to know out weighed his fear.

I agree to your conditions. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He needed a clear head to retain what he was about to learn through the effects of the whisky. Fred was a crafty devil, he thought to himself. He was amazed how Fred could hold his liquor, as he watched him drain his glass again and refill it. Fred began to speak, softly, almost in a monotone voice.

In this tale, I’m going to introduce you to a cast of characters. Some are dead. Some are still alive. Some you know. Some you’ve never heard of. When I’m finished, you’ll have a crystal clear picture of those events. Then you’ll understand why it’s imperative that what happened can never be revealed. He took another swallow from his glass and shook his head slowly. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m doing this! Robert’s mouth dropped open.

CHAPTER TWO

Fred slumped into his chair and closed his eyes. He slowly exhaled through his nostrils and sat motionless for over a minute. Robert thought Fred had had a heart attack and was just about to speak when Fred opened his eyes. Robert realized that, in that minute, Fred had relived what he was about to tell. In order to build a good house, one must first build a strong foundation. Without it, the house won’t stand. Before I get into the reason why you came here, I have to lay a foundation for this story. Otherwise, you won’t have a clue what I’m talking about. So, let me start with a history lesson. Christ, Robert thought to himself, he’s stalling for time again. He knew he would have to endure this and listen. However, if Fred didn’t tell him what he wanted to know afterwards, he was going to get up, walk out, and seek his answers elsewhere. Robert nodded in agreement.

Let’s start with the days of King Solomon. During his reign, he erected numerous buildings. One in particular was his temple. The structure was magnificent in construction, design, and beauty. He had numerous architects constructing it, but his grand architect was Hiram Abiff. He was unequaled in his knowledge and skills. Abiff had numerous apprentices, who tried to learn his trade. There was a price, however. The apprentice spent years learning and honing his skills. Only when Abiff felt the scribe had learned a lesson to perfection did he take him to the next level. However, to truly master the secrets of his craft could take a lifetime. Abiff had three apprentices that had a thirst for his knowledge and were impatient. Their names were Jubelo, Jubela, and Jubelum. One day their frustrations got the better of them, and they confronted Abiff and demanded to know his secrets. Abiff repeatedly refused, and they tried to beat it out of him. In the process, Abiff was killed by one of their blows. Frightened by what they had done, they carried him off, buried him in a shallow grave, and fled. When Abiff did not show up to supervise the work on the temple, King Solomon knew something had happened to him. He sent his army out to find him, and it was not long before Abiff’s body was discovered. King Solomon was enraged. He also noticed that Jubelo, Jubela, and Jubelum were gone and ordered their immediate arrest. He wanted them taken alive and brought to him. The three were eventually captured and brought before King Solomon, where each confessed his role in the murder of Abiff. Solomon sentenced them to death in a most profane way. Each was decapitated and their stomachs and abdomens were cut open. Their entrails were placed over their left shoulders, and their hearts were cut out and burned to ashes. Their remaining organs were placed around their bodies, and their remains were left for the buzzards and to rot. Fred paused, took another drink, and refilled his glass. Robert heard of Hiram Abiff, but he kept saying Jubelo, Jubela, and Jubelum over and over in his mind. Fred could tell by Robert’s face what he was trying to do and began to chuckle. Don’t worry, Bob, you’ll remember, just as I have. Although, there’ll come a day when you pray to God you will forget, because you’ll think you’re going mad. You can’t tell a soul, and it will tear your guts apart. I can tell by your face you don’t know where I’m going with this little lesson, but your curiosity is peaked because you know it’s leading to a climax. Trust me, it will. Do you like tales of knights in shining armor? Robert nodded. Good! Let me continue now with a little history about them. I’m sure you will enjoy. Fred took another drink. Where does this man put it all? Robert thought. Fred sat his glass back down, poured himself another drink, and pointed the bottle towards Robert, who shook his head. Fred sat the bottle down. I get a little parched telling stories. Fred let out a short laugh and slapped the table.

The Knights Templar were formed and served the pope. They took an oath of poverty, chastity, and obedience. They were assigned to protect and lead Christians, who were being slaughtered and robbed, to and from Jerusalem. You could recognize them by the bright red cross on their white tunics. It is believed they stayed at the Temple of Solomon, in Jerusalem; thus, they came to be known as the Knights of the Temple. Over the years, they grew in numbers all over Europe and amassed a vast fortune in land and money. They even set up banking systems. With their amassed wealth came unbelievable power. Nobility across Europe and the Catholic Pope began to fear them because they couldn’t be controlled. King Philip IV of France owed them a considerable debt, and France was facing bankruptcy. He needed more money, but the Templars refused. King Philip, a Catholic, met with Pope Clement V and persuaded his Holiness that the Templars were quickly becoming a threat to every nation they were entrenched in and to Catholicism. Fearing their power, Pope Clement decreed that every Templar should be arrested on charges of heresay, sodomy, and bestiality. Secret warrants were issued for the leaders in Paris. Technically, the warrants were illegal because the Templars only answered to the Pope and were immune to civil law. Arrests all across Europe took place on Friday, October 13, 1307. Since then, every time the 13th falls on a Friday, it’s referred to as Black Friday and is considered an unlucky day. All of their lands and wealth were confiscated in the name of the Catholic Church, with the blessing of the Pope. Each was tried and convicted of crimes against the church. Many were executed after they confessed their guilt. Jacque de Molay was their leader. Eventually, he confessed and was imprisoned. He later recanted his confession and was burned at the stake. As he was dying, he cursed King Phillip and Pope Clement. He said King Phillip would die within twelve months, and Pope Clement would also die within forty days. Both of them died, as Molay predicted. Anyway, the plan wasn’t perfect, and a small band escaped and fled to Scotland. There were some Knights Templar there already, and the survivors were welcomed. When the Scottish Knights learned of the Pope and King Philip’s treachery, they vowed revenge, however long it took. As time passed, they noticed the stone masons at work. They built cathedrals and other buildings. Their trade took them wherever there was work to be had. Times were hard, and many hungry people posed as stone masons in order to acquire work. Because their craft was becoming shoddy and their fellow masons weren’t getting work, the real stone masons became angry. They devised a secret phrase and handshake which identified the real stone masons to the hiring architects. This told the architect that the person applying was a true stone mason. Basically, it was a union. This union was organized and spread throughout Scotland and Europe. The Templars realized this would be the organization that would aid in regaining their power and revenge. They were welcomed by the stone masons because of who they were. Eventually, two branches evolved within their union: Operative Masons, who were stone cutters and building craftsmen, and Speculative Masons, who were outside the craft. The Speculative Masons were educated and had wealth, prestige, and power; over time, they took over the craft. Many of the terms used in the earlier days were kept but had different meanings. For example, the Operative Masons stored their tools in lodges, and the Speculative Masons, when they established a new chapter into their order, kept that tradition. As time passed, more and more chapters were established, and the Masons began to hold positions of power within that country’s government. Their first blow against Catholicism probably came when King Henry VIII denounced the Catholic Church and established the Angelican Church of England.

Robert’s mouth dropped, and he sat up in his chair. I’m sorry Fred. I know I’m to sit and remain quiet, but, if I’m hearing you right, you’re talking about the Masonic Order of today? They’re out to gain power and destroy the Catholic Church? You’ve lost your mind, Fred! Many of my friends are Masons, and many of the editors and owners of newspapers are Masons. I’ve seen their lodges all over England, and I understand there many more in America. I’ve seen some of them going into those lodges, and they’re some of the most powerful and notable people in the empire and are good men all! Fred smiled and nodded his head.

I knew this was going to happen. I figured I’d allow you to interrupt me when I got to this point. When I first was educated, I was in shock, as you are now. You’re right. Many Masons are good men and have done much to help the community. They’re average citizens, just like you and me. Do you know how many degrees there are in the Masons? Robert shook his head. Thirty-Three, which is the highest degree that can be reached. However, most Masons never reach that degree, as it is very hard and takes a long time. Plus, you have to change your way of thinking about life to get that far. There is one degree higher, and very few of them make it to that level. The candidates are chosen to come into that degree. It is referred to as the Thirty-Fourth Degree, or, in their circles, the Royal Arch. To pass through the Royal Arch, you must deny God, country, flag, family, and all you’ve been taught. These men are the descendants of the Knights Templar who swore revenge on the Pope. Their goal is for a new world order, however long it takes. When the American colonies won their independence from us, it was Royal Arch Masons that sat down with their new government and structured the way it was going to be. George Washington and most of the other rebels were already Masons. Look at their capital. The city is laid out in Masonic design. Do you remember when we first met, and I asked you if you were on the square with me? What do you think that meant?

Robert thought for a few seconds.

I think you were asking me if I was being honest with you about my intentions in talking to you. Fred took a drink and looked Robert in the eyes.

Normally, you’re correct. However, there’s another, more subtle meaning. Do you remember that I told you the Speculative Masons kept a lot of the traditions from the Operative Masons? A square is a tool used by stone masons. Square also used to identify brother masons when they met. For example, if I ask you if you’re on the square, you’re response should be I’m on the level. A level is another tool used by stone masons and also lets each of them know they’re both Masons, although they may belong to different lodges. When I shook your hand, where did I place my thumb? Robert sat thinking. "I placed it on the back of your hand below your index and middle finger. If you were a Mason, you would’ve done the same grip. Neither of us said a word but we would have known we were both members. Those two things told me you were not a member and were profane, which is a word used to describe those that have not been initiated. I know about them, but I’m profane, also. One more thing, and then I’ll move on. If they want to know what degree another member is in, I would say the secret word for that degree. For the first degree, the word is Boaz. Now understand this, Robert. The fact that I have revealed this information is punishable by death. This is written in their charter. If you talk or write about any of this, you’ll die. I’m sorry, but, by starting out this way, I almost insure your silence. I’m comfortable that you’re not a Mason sent to find out if I’ll say anything, so I’ll tell you the rest of the story. Now do you understand how imperative it is that you let this story go?" Robert got an angry look on his face.

You bloody hell set me up!? Okay, I’m going to take what you’ve said on face value. I don’t see what the history lesson has to do with the Ripper?

Bob, to comprehend the entire picture, you have to know all of these things. They’re important because, without one key element of what happened and why, you’ll leave here with doubts. You’ll keep digging and start asking questions to the wrong people. By learning the entire truth, you’ll keep your mouth shut, as I have all these years. You’ll save your life, but more importantly, you’ll save the lives of so many others. Do you want to continue or walk away? I can see you’re scared. Hell, I was and still am. That’s the kind of power they wield. Robert took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose.

"You’re telling me I’m dealing with a secret society of some fiendish people. Well, I’ve come this far, and I can’t see any other person to tell it to me. Go ahead and I’ll listen.

Fred leaned across the table and whispered. They’re not a fiendish secret society. They’re a society of fiendish secrets. He sat back and took another drink, and Robert joined him. He wondered why Fred had had such a change in mood and attitude. At first, he thought it was the effect of the whiskey, but he had learned that Fred could hold his liquor. Then the answer came. He was playing priest to Fred’s confession. All of these years of pent up dark secrets were about to be released to absolve Fred of any guilt he felt and cleanse his soul. Robert sat his glass back down, slumped slightly in his chair, crossed his ankles, folded his hands on his lap, and prepared to listen.

Fred looked at Robert as he cocked his head to one side, then straightened back up and closed his eyes. After several seconds, he opened them and seemed relaxed.

You weren’t born yet in the 1880’s, Bob. You can’t imagine what London was like. Ohhh, it was heaven or hell. The West End of London was affluent and alive with wealth, overindulgence, and decadence. The homes were unbelievably large, with incredible landscaping. The occupants were ladies and gentlemen, in every sense of the word. Imports of every conceivable commodity were arriving, and exports were leaving the harbors, just as fast as ships could be loaded. The West End led the world in culture and the sciences. Authors, painters, playwrights, and musicians turned out one masterful work after another. One could always go and enjoy Shakespeare or take a risk and see a new play entitled, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Fred laughed. Buffalo Bill and his Wild West Show entertained daily, for those who fantasized about the American Wild West. Fashion played a key role. Those in high society had to be noticed by their peers to insure their places in social circles. They suffered designs that were too loose, tight, hot, or cold. One made it if heads turned or whispers were exchanged. If a person in the social elite had their name appear in the society page, that was an extra bonus. Yes, Bob, life was good, and it was grand to be from the West End." The slight smile on Fred’s face and the twinkle in his eye disappeared. His expression changed into a grimace.

There’s another side of London. It is visible to the naked eye, but it is ohhh sooo delicately camouflaged. This area was known as the notorious East End, but it was more commonly referred to as White Chapel and covered a vast area. I can still recall the names: Aldgate, Spitafields, and Houndsditch. Streets that ran for blocks, such as Commercial Street. It was a vast area that covered from Baker to Cable Street and Chandler to Sydney Street. Ninety-thousand people dwelled inside this area! Most of the neighborhoods were middle class, but a few blocks further in any direction, and the streets were so infested with crime, the constable walking his beat had to choose which criminal he was going to pursue. You see, arrests meant time away from his beat and, in his absence, criminals would be more active. But bless the residents’ hearts, they endured. They endured six or more people sharing a room and the fact that fifty-five percent of all children living there would die before the age of five. Eleven thousand homeless people endured, making a home wherever they could, from doorways to trash bins. These people endured scant or no employment. They endured the black, choking smoke of the coal plants, which caused thousands to die of lung disease every year. Not only did they endure, Bob, but they thrived and flourished. Their cries for better living conditions, more pay, safer streets, and greater education for their children fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. However, there were a few living outside the East End who were compassionate to their plight. Fred paused a few seconds, while he took a drink and refilled his glass. Robert listened intentive.

Usually, around Christmas Time, the rich would make a pilgrimage to the slum district, which is what they called the East End. Anyway, they’d come down and give some food, clothes, or a little money. This was called slumming amongst fashionable society. I guess this relieved their consciences for the rest of the coming year. They didn’t have much to offer the people, except spiritual support. Many of the clergy members wanted to control the people. In order to acquire assistance, certain criteria or guidelines had to be met, such as a permanent residence, steady employment, abstinence from alcohol, no fornication, and the women were required to be married if they had children. Unfortunately, the people couldn’t meet these requirements and received no assistance. The masses grumbled that heavenly words alone did not put food in their bellies, and the clergy countered that they were selfish and self-seeking and the church couldn’t help those with that type of attitude. Some clergy thought it necessary to be near their flock. Fred got a broad grin and shook his head as he laughed. Such was the case of Reverend Samuel Barnett and his wife, and they moved into the St. Jude Vicarage. During their first week there, the landlady apologized to the Reverend when she served him rice pudding with a mouse that had drowned in the bowl. The holy couple moved and attended their flock from better accommodations.

Robert began to laugh. I remember reading stories about his crusade to save the wretches in the East End. All he needed was more funding from the government. I’ve never heard what you’ve just told me, and that’s priceless. The two laughed for a few minutes and had to wipe the tears from their eyes. Robert held his glass up, and Fred cordially filled it, as well as his. Fred’s face became serious again.

"The area was row after row and street after street of poorly built wooden houses. They were not insulated, and, in the winter, the wind howled through the cracks. In summer, the sweltering heat was like being in an oven. The buildings became worse over time. Landlords only cared about rent money and never made repairs. As more and more people came to the East End, a housing shortage developed. The owners partitioned rooms off to create more apartments to rent, doubling their profits. Overcrowding, rat’s disease, and vermin escalated. Owners of the worst of these houses were referred to as slumlords. The residents didn’t complain. Complaining meant eviction. For every person with a roof over his or her head, ten were waiting to take that place. They’d resigned themselves to living day-to-day, with no expectations or hope for tomorrow.

Just as in the West End, fashion was important in the White Chapel area. If clothes were dirty, stained, or tattered, chances of not being mugged were high. People wanted to blend in with the surroundings to avoid drawing attention. Clothes weren’t thrown away. They were sewed, darned, mended, or patched. Even when they’d outlived their usefulness, they were used to blow noses, wipe asses, or for sanitary napkins. Strips made great rope to tie things or wicks for lanterns and torches. Soap was available, but it was a luxury, and bathing was more so. Bath water wasn’t changed after each person, so, if you were the fifth or sixth person to use the water, good fortune smiled on you.

The East End was the driving force that kept the empire going. The workers bore the brunt of the industrial age. Black smoke from the coal burners continuously spewed into the sky. Sunlight had a gloomy effect, and there was a constant grey haze. Dust and soot covered everything. When it rained, the runoff was black. Breathing was always difficult. There were mouths to feed and bills to pay, so one made the best of an already-difficult situation.

The streets were littered with debris. Raw sewage and waste water either moved slowly toward a congested storm drain or stood in pools. Near the gutters, sludge formed temporary dams that kept the refuse from moving. Slaughter houses and fish markets dotted the narrow streets. One could hear the shrieks of the animals being killed or waiting for their appointed times. Even closer, the stench was breathtaking and gag-inducing. Once near the house, blood, guts, shit, and piss all mixed together near the doorway. Occasionally, someone would sweep this mixture to the gutter, and it would stand there, waiting to begin its journey to the sewer. Sometimes, this would take days, and the smell of decay would add to the existing stench. Dogs and cats benefited. They could be seen dragging off organs or entrails, as they made their way down the streets or under houses. Newborn litters waited to be fed. Fred paused and looked up at the ceiling of his garden shed, as if looking for something. Not many birds, though. Birds don’t congregate or sing where death hangs in the air. Most of the trees had been cut down long ago. Those left were dying. If a home had more than one room, that person was more affluent than their neighbor. Most one-room homes served as a living area, a dining room, a kitchen, a bedroom and a bath. Six or more people were crammed into this living space. Here, the family ate, conversed, and slept, and, after the kids went to bed, the parents, or whoever the mother was seeing at the time, would fuck. Sex was the only form of entertainment many of these people had."

Fred smiled and snorted through his nose. I recall an East End joke. Let me think. Yes, I remember. In the dim light, a ten year old girl watches her parents engage in intercourse. ‘Look, John, Mummy and Daddy are making you a baby brother.’ The six year old begins to cry. ‘I don’t want a baby brother. He’ll eat my food. Fred looked at Robert, who sat expressionless.

I fail to see the humor in it, Fred. It’s quite depressing, actually.

Quite. Fred softly responded, as he took another drink. The traditional breadwinner of the house was the male, if the home was lucky enough to have one. Work was scarce, and wages were poor. Three or four days of continuous labor meant that food and the rent were paid for, and, then, there were days of nothing. By the time work became available again, the male was weak from hunger or sick, and he couldn’t keep his job. He was immediately replaced. Good men made the most of it and endured. Smart men left and never came back. In any case, many succumbed to accidents, disease, or murder. The mother would have to go out and seek work. Labor in the East End was a man’s world, and it required brute strength under back-breaking conditions. Some enterprising women tried crafts. Supplies were expensive, and not too many could afford them. Others got employment as maids or servants, but, after several weeks of seeing people have things they didn’t, greed took over. They stole from their benefactors and were dismissed. Many more toiled in work houses, the government’s answer to unemployment. The hours were long and the money little. Although it wasn’t as physically demanding, this type of work was exhaustive. The woman would get up early, take care of her family, and go to work for twelve to sixteen hours. When she returned, the family needs had to be met. She’d get a few hours of sleep, and the cycle was repeated. After a few weeks, the grueling schedule would take its toll, and she was exhausted. Many finally cracked under the pressure, put away their Victorian and Christian morals, and turned to prostitution. They justified it and rationalized that a few minutes of labor yielded higher pay. A few were pretty and made good wages. This was the exception to the rule. Most looked older than they were, and wore the medals of the hard, violent world they lived in. They had missing teeth, scars, and wrinkled and leathery skin. Their hair was thinning and prematurely grey. These women could be loud and obnoxious, and their breath could make the strongest man’s legs weak. Many didn’t practice good hygiene, and their clothes and persons had a foul body odor. Most of her clients were East End men, and they looked and smelled just as bad. But Syphilis was an issue, and there was no cure. Should one contract the disease, it was a death sentence. The more Johns a woman was with, the greater her risk of contraction. Although poorly educated, they calculated their risks. These women were incredible at overcoming obstacles and adapting to their environment. Lots of women used tricks that could minimize those risks. Fellatio was not an option. The man’s genitalia usually smelled as bad as hers. Hand jobs were good, but most men wanted a bigger bang for their buck. Buggery was popular and brought more money but there was still the risk of disease and having her rectum torn, which could then become infected. Besides, this type of sex was painful and, if injured, made it hard to find further work. These women knew the vagina was the money maker, but they had to be protected from disease and pregnancy. Enterprising whores would rub lard or axle grease on the inside of their thighs. When she found a customer, it was customary to find a dark, secluded place. She would lean up against a fence or building and lift her dress. Then she would take the man’s cock and act like she was inserting it into a warm, wet pussy. Instead, she placed it between her thighs and applied pressure. This simulated the inside of her vagina. Throw in a few moans and groans, add a couple of spasms and the man came. He was happy and she was happy. Fred paused and watched Robert’s expression. He was shocked. Robert knew prostitution was rampant in the East End, but he never thought how graphic the sex act was or how clever some whores were. Fred smiled and continued.

Mothers, young or old, rich or poor, have an instinctive love for their children. Women naturally want to nurture and protect their kids. However, as conditions worsen, stress rises. She becomes taxed to the limit as she adds more children, more mouths to feed, and gains more responsibility, with no male to share the load. Remarkable is an understatement when talking about how women looked out for others of their gender. When one had to go to work, another who had free time volunteered to look after her brood. She knew the kind act would be reciprocated. Great responsibility was placed on the oldest children to take care of their siblings and look after the household. There was little time for fun and games and no time to enjoy their childhoods. The children who were not taking care of the home usually found themselves working to help supplement the income. The child that survived to age twelve was emotionally, spiritually, and morally lacking. The years of witnessing the dark side of life, having no role model, learning their values from a morally corrupt mother, and being abandoned by God and church made these children grow old before their time. Clothes were handed down from the oldest to the youngest, with no concern over gender-specific items. Shoes were a luxury that most never enjoyed. Rags, wrapped around the feet and ankles and secured by strands of rags, worked just as well as shoes. I can still see those little heathens with uncombed hair, dirty faces, sometimes mixed with dried snot that dried under their nose. Many of these little devils became beggars or street actors. A child could give the most pitiful look with their eyes, while holding out his or her hand, and softly say, Please, sir. In the next instant, their little faces could light up, becoming animated at receiving a coin or two or a piece of candy. There were so many of them, and so little change to go around. The more daring ones could use this ruse as a means to get closer. They wanted to pick a pocket. Acting is a great survival skill that they developed. Robert saw a tear in the corner of Fred’s eye but said nothing. He understood Fred was recounting from his personal experiences.

Besides poverty, filth, and disease, the East Enders had a more formidable foe, violence. Poverty and filth are everywhere, and one gets used to living in it. Disease creeps up gradually. Violence comes quickly and without warning. Violence in the West End took the form of words, gestures, or letters. Physical acts were seldom carried out. After all, these people were civilized and had Victorian standards. In the East End, violence brought swifter results. People in control of their faculties with the ability to reason, understood that if you lose your temper and get into a fight, you run the risk of being injured. Being injured meant being unable to work. Being unable to work meant no money. No money meant bills would not get paid, and there would be no food or a roof. You see, Bob, there was among them a great destroyer of rational thinking. Fred motioned with his head towards Robert’s glass of whiskey. By indulging, it made the playing field level. There was no class system. Everyone became equal. This magical elixir made one forget all their troubles and problems. Nobody suddenly became somebody. Inside the mind, outside conditions didn’t exist or matter. Like God, it had many names, but its true name was alcohol , and it was legal and abundant. The price was cheap, and the West Enders made sure the East Enders had enough to forget their problems. Otherwise, any problems in White Chapel would quickly become theirs.

Is that the reason why you drink the magic elixir?

Fred slowly shook his head. No, I drink to forget.

Forget what?

I don’t know. I forgot. Both men burst out laughing, but Robert knew there was some truth in his answer. Suddenly, a woman’s voice could be heard from a distance.

Frederick Abberline! Where are you?" Fred rolled his eyes.

I’m in the garden shed, Emma dear.

What’re you doing out there so long?

Sorting and putting things away, Emma dear.

Well, don’t be out there all day. Supper will be ready soon, and don’t get too pissed on the whisky you’re drinking!

Yes, Emma dear. I won’t. Fred leaned forward and whispered. Woman knows what I’m doing without even seeing me. It’s uncanny and unnatural, I tell you. But she’s a good soul to have stuck by me all these years. Besides, she knows I’m harmless in my older years and gives me more latitude. Fred raised his glass in the direction of the house. Toast with me, Bob. To my lovely wife Emma! The two clinked their glasses. Where did I leave off? Oh yes, I remember. Opium was more expensive, less accessible, and took effect too fast. There was no time to enjoy the high and control it. One was the master with alcohol, while with Opium, one became a slave. Besides, it made a person lethargic. No matter what the drug of choice was, in any attempt to feel good, some bastard always interfered: The child sent to the pub by mum to tell daddy to come home for supper, the bloke that is being loud and obnoxious, or the whore that wants to go outside and fuck for a price. Damn distractions! Don’t take this shit! Lash out! Violence is the key to get them to stop. Flashing money or buying too many drinks always had shifty eyes watching. They were thinking up ways to relieve one of his cash. Fred put his index fingers to the side of his head and made circle motions, imitatating wheels spinning. Surviving all these pitfalls, he heads home and, as he walks, he suddenly gets a sinking feeling in his gut. He knows she’s waiting and will be pissed. The thought of her incessant nagging irritates him to no end. Some guy makes a comment, and gets popped; or a whore questions his virility or sexual preference, and gets slapped. These distractions are dealt with and are over in seconds. But, as soon as he walks in the door, she begins. He tries to ignore her, but she’s relentless. He begins to smolder, and, finally, she’s found that last nerve, and it’s raw. He explodes with a barrage of words and strikes. Up for the challenge, she matches him. Suddenly, he feels something in his hand, and she’s finally silent. Violence, murder, and mayhem were a daily occurrence in the East End. So much so that people got used to it and paid no attention. Just like the smells and sounds, this too had become part of the landscape. Acts of violence could not be controlled. They could only be maintained. The maintenance people were a thin line separating civilization from anarchy. They were the police. During this period in history, London had the largest and finest police department in the world. Fred puffed out his chest. Other cities modeled their departments after London. The constable was armed with a short club, just to get an unruly person’s attention. He carried a shrill whistle in his pocket, which was used to communicate with other constables and usually summoned assistance. At night, each officer carried a lantern, nicknamed a Bull’s Eye. It gave off a round, dull, yellow glow. Up close, it was a great tool. For seeing into the darkness, it was as useless. His area of assignment was small. He could usually cover the beat in fifteen minutes. After spending a few months walking his beat, the constable knew every nook and cranny. He could tell the bad guys from the good and knew everyone and their business. There were two sides to the constable in the East End, one that was kind and compassionate and the other which meted out swift and terrible justice on those that questioned his authority. Because of the financial situation of many of the residents, he would often turn a blind eye to minor infractions. The constable understood that arresting the poor soul would only drive him deeper into misery and despair. When he arrived at a scene that was chaotic and hysterical, the crowd would part like the Red Sea, and he would walk through them. He gave off the aura of order, and those in the crowd knew he was capable of restoring it." Fred extended his