The Hunt for Jack the Ripper (The Phantomhive Diaries #1)

22. Frederick Abberline

I do enjoy writing Abberline's character. He takes his job so seriously that it's hilarious when other characters don't take him seriously. So, I'm not 100% sure if the White Swan public  house I found was the actual one where Martha Tabram was last scene alive. I counted at least 3 White Swan pubs in London alone. The closest I could find was the one in Whitechapel High Street. Also, forgive me if I botched the Cockney accent on one of the characters. Again, this is my first attempt at giving some of the characters stronger accents. 

Anyways, I hope you enjoy this segment. Only 2 POVs left to end Chapter 2. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As Abberline stepped into the White Swan during the day, a stark contrast to its lively nights, a hush had fallen over the pub. The only sound that broke the silence was the gentle clinking of glass as the bartender diligently cleaned the remnants of the previous night's revelry. In one corner, a rotund man with a shiny bald head was slumbering on a round table, his snores accompanied by drool trickling down his chin. The air was thick with the intoxicating aroma of ale and cigars, creating an atmosphere that whispered of the vibrant nights yet to come.

Abberline took a seat on a stool at the unoccupied bar, catching the bartender's attention as soon as he settled in.

"Good day, chief," the bartender said to him with a crooked smile.

"Good day," Abberline said. He then looked around the pub. "Very quiet today, isn't it?"

The bartender chuckled as he proceeded to clean the glasses. "Dis place don'' ge' packed un'il noon. You ge' all kinds ov folk 'ere."

"Hmm. Does that include prostitutes?" Abberline asked in a wondering manner, though he already knew the answer to that question. This was the last place Martha Tabram was seen alive, after all.

The bartender nodded. "Ah yes, prosti'u'es as well."

"...What about Martha Tabram?"

At that very instant, the bartender came to a halt, his attention captured. Abberline was well aware that the tragic news of Martha Tabram's demise would have eventually spread throughout the entire city of London. The ink smudges on the bartender's fingertips hinted he had already perused the newspapers. Moreover, The Illustrated London News lay casually in the backdrop near the sink, revealing an interesting detail. It either meant that the bartender had a fondness for visuals or struggled with reading comprehension.

Abberline knew that the mere mention of Martha Tabram would undoubtedly provoke a much more hostile reaction from him.

"You from Scotland Yard or somethin'?" the bartender asked, scowling at him.

Abberline tipped his top hat. "Inspector Abberline."

"Eh. You 'ere abou' that case, aren' ya?"

"Yes, I am."

The bartended sighed and tossed the wet cloth into the sink. "Listen, if you're 'ere 'o accuse me like 'ha' Randall fella, I 'ave no in'eres' in 'alkin 'o you."

Abberline shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I know you were here all night attending to the clients. Your alibi is strong. I just came to ask if you remember anything else from that night. Maybe someone watching Mrs. Tabram from afar. Someone who may have left the pub after she and Pearly Poll did?"

"People in my pub come an' go all 'he 'ime. Do you really 'hink I'm gonna knah which ov me clien's killed 'ha' woman las' nigh'? Everyone was 'avin' a good 'ime. Everyone was bladdered an' dancin'. No one saw no'hin'. I already 'old ya every'hin i knah."