Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

On the subject of Fred being Jack the Ripper, Kate gave a nervous laugh and said, “It’s hard to imagine an Englishman doing such ghastly work as what Jack did to those fallen women — even knowing what Albert did to his two wives and children. And yet…” Kate’s face drew long and distant. “Now that I think back, there was something in his eyes that scared me. In those moments of madness, when he would stomp about the ship claiming his property had been stolen, I wanted desperately to be away from him. Still, I do find it hard to believe that Albert could’ve committed those crimes in Whitechapel. I know that’s what the papers have been saying, but I can’t quite come at the idea.”

Another passenger aboard the Kaiser Wilhelm II also finds it difficult to come at the idea of Deeming being the notorious Whitechapel murderer. “I knew both Mr. and Mrs. Williams well,” Alphalton corn merchant Sydney Oakes said. “I became rather good friends with the pair whilst travelling on the steamer heading for Melbourne. It was true, Albert could be a little unusual, but he was always affectionate towards Emily. I saw nothing but love there, which makes it so hard for me to comprehend that Albert could’ve killed Emily in such a way. Still, there was nothing about the man that ever made me think he was capable of the atrocities committed in Whitechapel four years ago. He boasted of murder, but always in reference to black fellows. And with his strong Lancashire accent and generally charming way about him — no, I can’t see Albert stalking the streets of London’s East End, slaughtering loose women.”

When asked why he thought Deeming had murdered his wife, Oakes stuttered and started preening his moustache. “It had to have been an accident,” Oakes finally answered. “They probably argued, and Deeming accidentally struck his wife and killed her. I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it. I guess he panicked and, not wanting to be caught, buried her under the hearthstone.” Didn’t Mr. Oakes meet up with Deeming in January, only a week or so after Deeming had murdered his wife? “That’s correct. We had a drink at the Baths Hotel in Bourke Street.” I asked Oakes what Deeming’s disposition was like during that meeting. “He seemed like his old self — charming, gay and ever boastful. He riled some of the patrons in the bar with his flamboyant talk and gestures. I thought there was going to be a brawl.” Didn’t he think it strange that a man who had brutally killed his wife only a week before could act so brazenly cheerful? “Maybe it was simply his way of coping. Or maybe he genuinely had no remorse. It’s hard to say. I never saw him again after that. Next time I heard about Albert Williams, they were saying his real name was Frederick Deeming and that he was suspected of killing his wife, Emily. I have to say, that threw me. I still have trouble placing that man with such horrible deeds. And I still can’t believe that body I saw in the morgue was Emily. It didn’t even look human, let alone a lady I knew to be so kind and sweet.” Mr. Oakes got up from his kitchen table then and poured himself a glass of gin. “Poor Emily,” he muttered.

Poor Emily indeed. The 26-year-old from Rainhill, had no idea about her new husband’s past, nor what he had planned for her. And Fred Deeming certainly had her murder planned. It was no accident, no spur-of-the-moment act of violence that saw her end up buried in concrete under the hearthstone of the bedroom fireplace with her skull smashed and her throat cut.

It was only two days after landing in the British colony’s second largest city that Fred Deeming went to a local ironmonger and bought all the tools needed to help conceal his wife’s dead body under the house in the hope that the body would never be found — or at least, not discovered until long after he had left Australia.

The owner of the ironmonger shop in High Street, John Woods, remembers Deeming as both a flamboyant character, and a surly man. “When he first came into my shop, he was a loud, larger-than-life character. He wore lots of expensive-looking jewellery, and spoke with a distinct English accent. Along with his large ginger moustache, he stood out like a fishmonger at the opera. The man, who called himself Drewn, ordered from me cement, sand, a broom, spade, a pan and a trowel. He was pleasant, if a little brusque at times. However, a different man entered my store the next day. He claimed that the tools and materials had never been delivered to his house as ordered. His manner was cold, angry and quite frankly, he unnerved me. His eyes held a kind of blankness, and I could see him spiralling into a rage at a moment’s notice, so I swallowed my pride — I was sure his order had been delivered — and took all the materials he had ordered the previous day personally to his house in Windsor. On the way, Drewn explained to me that he needed the items for work in his yard, however, when I arrived at the house, I noticed that the yard was in no need of work. I made the comment that the yard seemed perfectly fine to me. Drewn looked frazzled, and in a huffy tone, said that it wasn’t the yard that needed work, but a copper boiler. Well, that seemed fine too, but I kept quiet this time. The man was clearly riled up enough already, and I didn’t fancy pressing him. So, after dumping the tools and materials at his house, I left. I was already uncomfortable in the man’s presence, but his strange behaviour regarding the items and their purpose simply compounded my unease. When the police came to me months later to ask me about Drewn and I learnt of the dreadful nature in which Drewn had done away with his missus, I felt ill. To think, it was my materials and tools he used to seal his wife’s body under the fireplace.” Mr. Woods, a slim, middle-aged man with striking black hair and beard, shuddered noticeably as he stood behind the counter in his shop. Though he could not have had any way of knowing the diabolical use that Fred Deeming had for the cement, trowel and other items, the knowledge that he had sold Deeming these things obviously still weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Mr. Woods isn’t the only person to have feelings of guilt. Though, like Mr. Woods, he couldn’t have known what was to happen, the owner of the Andrew Street house, local butcher John Stamford, regrets letting the house to Mr. Deeming.

“I was fooled by his air of respectability,” said Mr. Stamford. “Here was this finely-dressed Englishman, wanting to rent my house. How was I to know he was a scoundrel and a cold-blooded murderer? Christ, I didn’t even know the bloke’s name till later, when he came to my shop with a small parcel, telling me he was going to mend some nail holes in the wall of the house. Cement he reckons was in the parcel! Blimey, it was probably the knife he used to do away with his missus.”

Stamford’s estate agent, Mr. Charles Connop, also admits to being fooled by the Englishman’s noble exterior. “I only met him a couple of times. He seemed like a perfectly reasonable gentleman to me. He paid a month’s rent for the house on Andrew Street, even though he clearly hadn’t planned on staying that long. He must’ve had it all planned out in his head before ever setting foot in Melbourne. I met his wife, too, once. She seemed like a timid creature — pretty, but quiet. What a horrible end she came to.”

And so, with the house rented and with all the tools necessary to cover up the dastardly deed, Fred Deeming was all set to murder his new bride. He had the madness to carry it out, and the cold cunning to cover the evidence.

In the next part of this special report, we’ll take a look at the crime itself, speak to those who discovered the ghoulish burial site, as well as neighbours who say they have seen and heard strange things in the Andrew Street house. We’ll also take you inside the murder house, so be forewarned — only the strong of heart need continue reading about this most ghastly of crimes.