Whitechapel by Bryan Lightbody Page B

ablutions.
    “Stupid mutt,” said Abberline under his breath but smiling and began making himself some tea and toast.
    Usually leaving for work around 7.15 and catching the omnibus service along the Romford and the Bow and Whitechapel Roads into central London, he was disturbed when the door knocker sounded around ten past the hour. He strode to the door with the dog barking and strutting along behind him and opened the front door to be greeted by a former colleague beyond whom he could see a hansom cab waiting in the road. It was George Godley a detective sergeant with whom he had worked in the Whitechapel area and who he knew was still posted there.
    Godley was a man of a total of eleven years service with the Metropolitan force and aged thirty. He was born and bred in East Grinstead, Sussex so like Abberline not a native of the area and also like Abberline he had immersed himself during his career in the East End and was all too familiar with the nature of its society. He was a strikingly handsome man with short, smart dark hair and a well kept moustache and dressed this morning not dissimilarly to Abberline, almost the standard detective dress of the department.
    “Morning, Fred. How are you?” he said in a casual but friendly manner to his old friend and colleague, extending his hand to shake Abberline’s.
    “I’m bloody well, George, actually old fellow, but what the bloody hell are you doing here at this time of the morning, and on a Thursday to boot?” he took Godley’s hand and shook it firmly as they smiled at each other.
    “Well to answer your first question, Fred, I am very well and as part of the answer to your second question, I am looking forward to working with you again.” Finishing his reply he thrust the morning’s edition of ‘The Star’ newspaper to Abberline with a bold headline.
    ‘SECOND UNFORTUNATE SLAIN IN WHITECHAPEL.’
    “Bloody hell, George, what’s all this about then? Doesn’t normally make the headlines,” Abberline said somewhat surprised at the news headline.
    “The papers have got hold of it and they think that there’s a pattern emerging. The Commissioner is also very unpopular and there is the hype that no one cares for the lower classes.”
    “All right, George, that doesn’t completely tell me what you’re doing here,” Abberline said with nagging and obvious awareness for Godley’s visit.
    “Superintendent Arnold is being put in charge of a priority investigation of these murders, and this is all since just after four this morning when the news broke at The Yard that the second woman had been murdered.”
    “Well with a mind to the fact it’s only quarter past seven, they wasted no bleeding time getting on to you and then getting you round here.”
    “Are you going to ask me in for a cup of tea as because of rushing here first I haven’t had one yet, or am I going to keep briefing you getting as dry as leather makers crotch on your bloody doorstep!”
    “Sorry, mate, come on in there is more in the pot,” he gestured Godley past him to the kitchen where the other George was now jumping up at the back door and barking to be let out. “Shut up you little bleeder,” yelled Abberline opening up the door at the same time. Godley ignored this intent on pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot on the gas cooker.
    He had been up since 5.a.m when a local inspector, a measure of the importance of the matter, had called at his modest house in Stratford just a few miles further in towards London from Abberline’s. The inspector was passing on the orders from Superintendent Arnold to get Abberline immediately and bring him to The Yard for a briefing, and telling Godley that they were both assigned to the case until it was resolved.
    “Sorry about the doorstep, George, I was just a little bit stunned to see you. It’s been a few years as you know. Bit of a shock to think I’m getting thrown back into the fray of the East End.”
    “Don’t worry, it’s good