Read Online The Law Killers by Alexander McGregor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexander McGregor
Tags: General, True Crime
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there might be something in it about Jack the Ripper, whose activities among the whores of Whitechapel had the population gripped in a mixture of fear and fascination in equal measure. Walker added that his new neighbour ‘might know something about him’. Bury was unamused and left a short time afterwards. Unexpectedly, he called back an hour later and the pair went for a walk together. As they strolled the roads surrounding the harbour area and viewed the tied-up vessels in the docks, Bury enquired about the times of boats and trains for London, saying he was of a mind to return south to have a drink with his former acquaintances there. He also spoke about the departure times of vessels sailing to Hull and Liverpool.
Shortly before 7 p.m. that evening, Bury went for another walk, but this time with a macabre purpose. Deeply agitated and nervous, he threw on his short black overcoat over his tweed suit, adjusted his felt hat, and – after locking up the flat and swiftly climbing the seventeen stairs from the dingy basement – wound his way down King Street, picking his way between the high tenements by the light of the gas lamps on both sides of the road. As he approached police headquarters in Bell Street, his pace quickened and his heart thumped. He barely lifted his head to see where he was going, for over and over in his head he was rehearsing the extraordinary tale he was about to tell.
By the time he turned into the police offices at the far end of the street, Bury’s breathing had become so rapid that he became enveloped in the clouds of expired breath vaporising in front of him that frosty February evening.
Without pausing to regain his composure, he at once asked to speak privately to the senior officer on duty. He was seen by Lieutenant James Parr and in a rush of words told him that Ellen was dead. She had taken her own life a week earlier, he said breathlessly. Now he was frightened he would be arrested as Jack the Ripper. On the previous Monday, he anxiously explained, they had both been drinking heavily and had sunk into a stupor, so much so that he had no recollection of the rest of the night or when they had gone to bed. The next morning, through a drunken haze, he spotted Ellen dead on the floor, apparently brought about by some form of self-strangulation with a rope, which was still round her neck.
Lieutenant Parr, unsure whether he was listening to the ramblings of a demented madman or actually having an extraordinary death reported to him, was further astonished by what came next. Bury, his words tumbling from his mouth, explained that the sight of his dead wife had caused him to be seized by some kind of mad impulse and he had picked up a nearby knife and inexplicably started plunging it into her body. Then, overcome with remorse and in a deep panic that he would be accused of being Jack the Ripper, he had bent up the corpse of his mutilated wife and rammed it into the large packing case he had brought with him from London. In the following days, he said, he had been uncertain what to do next and had wanted to take time to think. He had acted as normally as possible and on more than one occasion had some cronies round for games of dominoes, using the box with Ellen’s contorted body inside as the gaming table.
The police lieutenant was stunned by the startling story he had just heard, but, resisting his instincts to dismiss Bury as one of the mentally disturbed citizens who occasionally found their way into police offices, decided not to take any chances. He escorted Bury to a separate room and ordered a constable to remain with him. Then he despatched Lieutenant David Lamb (head of the detective department) and Detective Peter Campbell to the basement at 113 Princes Street, to investigate, taking with them the key Bury had handed over.
Inside, the flat smelled of stale alcohol and something neither officer could easily identify. Lamb went straight to the back room where the three-foot long,
Shortly before 7 p.m. that evening, Bury went for another walk, but this time with a macabre purpose. Deeply agitated and nervous, he threw on his short black overcoat over his tweed suit, adjusted his felt hat, and – after locking up the flat and swiftly climbing the seventeen stairs from the dingy basement – wound his way down King Street, picking his way between the high tenements by the light of the gas lamps on both sides of the road. As he approached police headquarters in Bell Street, his pace quickened and his heart thumped. He barely lifted his head to see where he was going, for over and over in his head he was rehearsing the extraordinary tale he was about to tell.
By the time he turned into the police offices at the far end of the street, Bury’s breathing had become so rapid that he became enveloped in the clouds of expired breath vaporising in front of him that frosty February evening.
Without pausing to regain his composure, he at once asked to speak privately to the senior officer on duty. He was seen by Lieutenant James Parr and in a rush of words told him that Ellen was dead. She had taken her own life a week earlier, he said breathlessly. Now he was frightened he would be arrested as Jack the Ripper. On the previous Monday, he anxiously explained, they had both been drinking heavily and had sunk into a stupor, so much so that he had no recollection of the rest of the night or when they had gone to bed. The next morning, through a drunken haze, he spotted Ellen dead on the floor, apparently brought about by some form of self-strangulation with a rope, which was still round her neck.
Lieutenant Parr, unsure whether he was listening to the ramblings of a demented madman or actually having an extraordinary death reported to him, was further astonished by what came next. Bury, his words tumbling from his mouth, explained that the sight of his dead wife had caused him to be seized by some kind of mad impulse and he had picked up a nearby knife and inexplicably started plunging it into her body. Then, overcome with remorse and in a deep panic that he would be accused of being Jack the Ripper, he had bent up the corpse of his mutilated wife and rammed it into the large packing case he had brought with him from London. In the following days, he said, he had been uncertain what to do next and had wanted to take time to think. He had acted as normally as possible and on more than one occasion had some cronies round for games of dominoes, using the box with Ellen’s contorted body inside as the gaming table.
The police lieutenant was stunned by the startling story he had just heard, but, resisting his instincts to dismiss Bury as one of the mentally disturbed citizens who occasionally found their way into police offices, decided not to take any chances. He escorted Bury to a separate room and ordered a constable to remain with him. Then he despatched Lieutenant David Lamb (head of the detective department) and Detective Peter Campbell to the basement at 113 Princes Street, to investigate, taking with them the key Bury had handed over.
Inside, the flat smelled of stale alcohol and something neither officer could easily identify. Lamb went straight to the back room where the three-foot long,
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