Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (2 page)

A good example of one distraction would be the drawing room, a place for entertainment and my pride and joy. In olden days, privileged members of the French court of royalty would gather outside the King’s Levees waiting for him to make his first public appearance of the day. In Victorian times the Levees had become the drawing room and took on quite a different purpose. When entertaining, after a lavish dinner, the ladies made their way to the room for idle gossip, while we fellows stayed in the dining room to enjoy a fine cigar, conversation and a good Napoleon cognac. Later we would join the ladies, if I was fortunate to have Eliza Gardiner in attendance, after some gentle persuasion she would delight us with her wonderful piano recitals. Occasionally, I was given the opportunity to duet with her. It was such a pleasure, being musically inclined. Eliza possessed the voice of an angel and enjoyed singing my self-written sonnets, while I played my precious Stein piano. Our guests always loved the high level of entertainment and I loved Eliza, as a friend. Never once did I contemplate a liaison and betrayal of her husband Cyril, who I considered a fine fellow. Although I found her to be very attractive indeed, I remained a gentleman.

The chill of autumn reminded me the short summer had come to an end and the fire now needed to be drawn and lit.

“A telegram for you, Sir.” My trusted butler, Edward, brought the post along with my morning tea into the study. I always gave telegrams my complete attention.

‘The Leather Apron still at large in Whitechapel. Stop. Enough frivolity. Stop. Contact me at your earliest convenience A.L. Richard. Stop.”

Rumors ran rife in London that each murder may be connected. There was not a social circle left that did not have something to say. The various hoax letters purporting to be from Jack had started to circulate, but none led to the killer. Now, my good friend and news reporter, Albert, had thoughtfully sent me a telegram, using one of the nicknames given to the elusive Jack: The Leather Apron, on account of his habit of carving up victims in the most gruesome manner remained free as a bird.

Through my own omission, I could not help but be drawn to the brutal murders. Caught up in the moment, I desired to be the one to bring him to justice. I was not startled easily or unused to witnessing unspeakable horrors in the past. I often thought there could be no mortal that would succeed in catching the treacherous and elusive killer.

The self centered part of me yearned for a quieter, more reserved existence. Now I had become a proper English gentleman. There were millions in cash and investments placed in bank accounts throughout the world. If I desired, I could become a gentleman at leisure - indulging in anything my heart desired.

With great haste I penned a letter to Albert. I suggested we meet at The Old Bell Tavern on Fleet Street, a popular watering hole for newsmen to gather and gleam information. London was already ablaze with speculation. Each unsolved murder had printing presses running overtime and Albert was in the thick of it, holding a prestigious post at The Times.

I instructed Bert, my trusted footman, to deliver the letter forthwith. If I was going to assist in the capture of this heinous killer, time was of the essence. Though I had plenty, his victims did not. I preferred to keep myself busy, a distraction from the thoughts that constantly plagued me as I periodically found myself in reflection. The morning had hardly begun, when much to my delight Marianne paid an unexpected visit flinging the door wide open before Edward could do his formal introduction.

“My darling, good morning and what a fine day it is!” she loudly exclaimed.

“What do I owe for this unexpected visit?” Although slightly taken aback, it was a joy to see her. Nothing about the stunningly beautiful and vivacious twenty three year old actress surprised me.

“I had a hard night, three curtain calls and a divine party after at the director’s home in Chelsea. But I awoke early and
had
to come and see you. Have you heard the news?”

“It depends on what news you are referring to. Every day brings news.”

“Emmanuel, my love, are you in a cocoon? It’s Jack, he’s still at large and there are fears he will strike again!”’

“That I know, I received a telegram this morning from Alfred. It appears Scotland Yard is at a loss of what to do next.”

“Well then, what are you planning to do, my darling? Surely you must know everything?”

Marianne knew about my indigenous past, as did a select few. Against my better judgment, I shared one night of unbridled passion with her and, fearing it would cause damage to both our reputations, convinced her it was best to remain just friends.

She possessed the most marvelous eyes, likened to two pools of a light blue ocean, with skin of porcelain. Her cheekbone structure divine and she always wore the latest designs from Paris, setting her apart in style. Gender roles are clearly defined in this Victorian Era, women in particular are expected to marry at the earliest opportunity and portray a weak inferior persona. Marianne did not fit that category, a dramatic actress with the spirit of an unbroken horse. One of only a handful of successful west-end performers and the daughter of a Sussex School Master, she had reached the ranks of the popular, becoming the toast of London society and a trusted confidant.

“I wish I could have been with you in those biblical times,” she remarked, running a middle finger seductively across my top lip. I could feel my manhood rising, but like a gentleman, I fought the urge.

“Stop that. You know we have an agreement not to become romantically inclined.”

“A girl can try. At least give her credit for that.”

“I only want to savor the memory of an extraordinary night. Let’s not spoil it,” said I, doing my best to stay in control. Hundreds of years taught me well. For example: how to restrain myself when in close proximity to an irresistible woman, such as Marianne Ashmore who, was truly delightful. I loved her fiery temperament and scandalous talk of joining the ever-growing band of women campaigning for the right to vote. Her company was forcing me to digress from my plan to journey to Albert. With matters to attend to; Marianne had to leave.

“My dear, sweet, handsome man, it appears I have called on you at the wrong moment. But then I must go to sleep, being up all night and an early breakfast has begun to take its toll.”

After a brief, unexpected kiss on the cheek, she was away, leaving me free to take the carriage to Fleet Street and Albert while I put her luscious body out of my mind.

For now, London suited me. It held infinite fascinations and opportunities to expand my fortune even further. Previous success in countless ventures left me confident enough to be involved in the rapid growth of an import business. Blessed with abilities far greater than any ordinary mortal, whose life span was guaranteed to expire within an expected time frame, I had notched up eighteen hundred years of experience. Frequently, during sleepless nights, I thought about how much I would be worth by the year 2150 if my Midas touch continued. Forever needing to think ahead, in what was becoming an increasingly materialistic world, I took no chances in missing out on lucrative business opportunities at every turn. I was Judas, after all.

A light drizzle was building, accompanied by a chilled wind in the air, as my carriage drove through the busy London streets for the rendezvous with Albert. The familiar cries of street sellers, accomplished at hawking their wares door to door echoed, ‘Buy my carrots, juicy carrots.’ ‘Fresh flowers for the lady of the house.’ Their shouts loud and clear, with the clip clop of horses hooves on the damp, slippery cobbles.

By the time I arrived at The Old Bell Tavern it had begun to rain in earnest, England’s weather bemusing at the best of times. Its perpetual rain and fog, which descended on London in the winter, was abominable.

Albert was waiting for me, eager and thirsty.

“Well, old chap, I was going to order you a fine ale. Or maybe you’d prefer something stronger?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“A good ale accompanied by a tender beef steak with potatoes will do nicely.”

I knew I would be paying for lunch. Albert’s meager wages did not allow for luxuries, or extras. Occasionally, due to my generous nature, I would make a donation.

“Would it be okay to make it two steaks?” he asked in a tentative tone of voice.

“Of course, it’s fine, old chap.”

“Will you be happy to pay for the ale?”

“Yes, that too.”

“There is a delicious apple and blackberry pie served here, a grand dessert.”

“Albert, my good man, everything is on me. I thought I’d mention that now before you ask for anything else after dessert, like a brandy.”

He was, after all his idiosyncrasies, a damn good fellow. I did find his small moustache to be slightly ugly, not suiting his wiry features or close set eyes. For some reason his clothes never seemed to fit, appearing to be slightly oversized, and, annoyingly, his shoes were always in need of a good polish. Appearances aside, he was an astute young man with a nose for news and an eye for the ladies. At the age of twenty eight, he had reached the status of a main news reporter. It was quite an achievement in Fleet Street for someone so young.

The Ripper case gave newsmen enough fodder to keep going for months. But Albert was never satisfied, hungering for more information, not caring how it came his way as he nosed around. He had the makings of an ideal policeman if he decided to give up putting pen to paper.

I, too, considered myself to be skilled in detection, but was I truly capable of catching such a slippery devil? Having endured many challenges throughout the centuries far worse than this, I was not prepared to give up, if only I could get my mind to focus.

“This Jack character is giving Scotland Yard a run for its money. He’s devious and tricky. Emmanuel, you must take your surveillance talk and do something with it, in the thick of it, the streets of Whitechapel,” said Albert.

“I can only do what I’m capable of, my dear friend. Surely you must know, even Judas is not invincible.”

“But you have a distinct advantage over the rest of us. If you have the misfortune to be harmed you are healed in a matter of minutes.”

“Not quite, if I have the misfortune to suffer an extreme attack it can be fatal. I am not indestructible, and I wager you would enjoy it immensely if I were to be the sacrificial lamb for the greatest scoop of your career.”

“I don’t wish you dead silly man, only triumphant. I doubt you would shout it to the world, being said with honesty, you would do your best, lambs discounted!”

If I were to fail, would Albert hold me responsible? I had the impression he underestimated Jack, a force to be reckoned with, as a simple catch once identified.

“He’s deadly. We must never underestimate him. That includes you,” I warned in no uncertain terms.

I often wondered if Albert actually believed I was immortal. I inadvertently confessed one night when full of ale and bravado. Alcohol put me in a drunken state very quickly if I consumed more than I should have. I surmised it was to do with my immortal status. Albert, on the other hand, was a bottomless pit. For every ale I drank, he drank double and twice as quickly. But we reached a mutual understanding. He was never sure if I was really Judas drifting through the centuries and I, in turn, tolerated his heavy drinking and ever increasing opportunistic ways to get me to pay for his vices.

“I will speak with Roderick. It would be better not to go alone, if I can get his mind off the fog and cold.”

“I was hoping that we’d avoid Roderick Cooley,” he replied with a grimace. Albert did not take to him upon introduction; his first impression one of horror. I understand why the sight of Roderick wearing hand crafted dark glasses to disguise his strange eyes is unnerving.

Albert is often cocky and arrogant. Roderick will not suffer fools gladly, making his opinion known. The tension recently lessened between them and it looks as if they found a degree of tolerance. I have yet to see what happens when both are full of ale.

Roderick joined me in London on my insistence and persuasion. I encouraged him away from his fine Virginian plantation where he had been since 1663 to oblige me in my new ventures. There was a time when we were neighbors until a wealthy land holder made an offer on my property I could not refuse. I returned to Europe soon after to see many changes. Tea and coffee had become popular and the women even more beautiful than I remembered.

Roderick was a dark Irish horse, and, under an assumed name, had signed the Declaration of Independence. He was also an instigator in the bill to move the nation’s capital from Philadelphia to Washington, DC. A keen property investor, he purchased a townhouse in the new capital and, like me, acquired a sophisticated and elegant apartment in the new Manhattan. Although I traveled the world and spent most of my time in London, I also took passage back to America on occasion. It was an irony while on a visit; news reached me there was more money to be made right in the hub of London.
Imports.
How could I turn down such a marvelous opportunity?

It was a twist of fate the recent spate of murders in London’s Whitechapel and the name alone, Jack the Ripper, coincided in need for something else. I told myself it was possible for me to undertake a search for the suspect. But, I could not run the business alone and needed someone trustworthy to assist. Only after many pleading telegrams did Roderick reluctantly agree to leave his home for the shortest time and take the journey to England. With his keen eye for business, I quickly made him a partner in the vain hope it would distract him from his frustration and I did so enjoy the company of my closest companion. Roderick found it troublesome to settle, he preferred the less formal ways of Virginia, which bended easier with his relaxed Irish ways. Unlike London, his strange, sometimes frightening appearance was largely ignored in a new world of countless immigrants.

His almost seven foot height intimidated most, including Albert, who refused to admit it and, was not weakened even by the sight of his cane. Forever the cynical joker, he decided to feign a leg injury taking too long to heal. The severity of his shuffle depending on whose company he found himself in, he played it beautifully and, fooling everyone.