Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (3 page)

In the meantime, I followed the Ripper case closely, devouring every newspaper I could lay my hands on, staying in close contact with Albert.

But it was proving very complicated as I had become far too ensconced in my business and social activities. Roderick thought me a snob, an upper class over-indulged so called English gentleman. I stood for everything he despised; his protest was to complain constantly about the weather and the formalities of the Victorian stiff upper class, and to speak Gaelic at every inappropriate moment.

I reminded him constantly that my friends and associates were unimpressed and, due to their lack of understanding, did not take kindly to his using the language. Roderick’s response was to ignore me and continue to use it regardless.

Albert put aside his distaste for Roderick to urge me, once and for all, not be so distracted by women and revelry. I was to be serious in my quest to take on the Leather Man.

“All your stories of battles drawn and won, surely a lone figure like him will be easy pickings. That is, if you are the fighter you claim to be,” he said. Often mindful of Albert’s uncertainty, never sure if he thought me insane or just plain deluded, I reassured him of my intentions.

It was time to take my leave as he had become slightly intoxicated and annoying, his belly full of steak and a head full of ale. Like so many of London’s newspaper men, his lifestyle consisted of a walk between his office and the closest Inn. The excuse? He would pick up on the idle chatter circulating. Somewhere in there could be a snippet of news that turned into a story or two.

Jack the Ripper.
The Whitechapel murderer began his killing spree early in April of this year and picked the perfect location. London’s east-end had become swollen with the impoverished. Living conditions were abominable. With my own eyes, I had seen rats in the gutters where raw sewage ran with velocity. In less than fifty years, the entire area had disintegrated, crime was rife, robbery being most commonplace, with roughly distilled gin consumed like water. The deprivation brought an alarming increase in prostitution and the current murders only added to the area being labeled as ‘riddled with vice and danger.’ Few outsiders ventured there. There were rumors circulating that men of high social standing and, members of royalty, did slip unobtrusively in and out of Whitechapel for a quick rendezvous with a woman of dubious means. For me, prostitutes were to be avoided at all costs, but my sympathies were with the victims, who did not deserve to be killed in such a brutal fashion.

My first chore would be to contact Roderick by telegram at the office, though I knew what his response would be. One of, ‘Not that dreaded Ripper fellow again,
leave
me out of it.’

arrived home to a warm fire burning brightly in the drawing room. Cook waited for me with the evening menu as I had guests for dinner. A reluctant Roderick, Cyril and Eliza, Captain and Mrs. Braithwaite, and Mr. Fitzgerald, a learned gentleman who spent most of his life as a missionary in Africa. I did not invite Marianne, knowing full well she would have declined due to her theatre engagements. A shame as her company and beauty delighted everyone.

“Master, I thought the roast venison a good choice, with duchess potatoes and red

cabbage. But I’m all a pickle, shall I prepare onion or vegetable soup?” Cook always fussed like a mother hen about the menus, I had become accustomed.

“I will let you decide, Cook, and I do hope we’re going to be treated to your delicious apple pie.”

“Oh yes, master, it’s on the menu. Will that be all?”

“That’s all, Cook,” said I, wishing I could be a trite less formal with my household. But my staff would then think me rude and, if I were to confide in them my real identity, they would also consider me quite mad. I am a charlatan, adept at changing persona to suit every occasion, lying my way through people’s lives and only confiding in those I felt could be trusted. If I were instrumental in bringing Jack to justice I would not seek notoriety, preferring to slip into obscurity with question. I did
not
like to draw attention to myself.

I dallied in my new business, and it was interesting, but not enough to keep me satisfied. I craved excitement, the thrill of the hunt, the need for an edge. When the time was right, I would be making my way to America in the not too distant future, the house in Belgravia sold and my staff dismissed. I would simply turn my back and walk away, a familiar pattern to my sometimes torturous existence.

It was to be late afternoon when Roderick finally arrived, quite flushed, with a stack of papers needing my urgent signature.

“This invoice needs signing now.” He was short in his manner.

The problem eluded me; his agitation clearly visible in his body language was a concern. I needed to know, so I pushed him to tell me.

“I’m settled in Virginia and enjoy my travels to Washington. It was only on insistence from you that I endured a hellish boat journey to find myself left to push
your
papers around in a mundane office. Now you have the nerve to want to involve me in a wild goose chase in a part of London I can’t abide, and then take this evening, another dinner party, idle chatter with people I don’t like and your abominable ago!”

I was truly stung by his comment, but he was, in part, correct. I had, by my own admission, been carried clean away with all manner of material gains and delights. Marianne being one distraction I found
so
hard to ignore.

I made a commitment. Later in the evening when my guests had taken their leave I would sit down with Roderick and discuss the matter in hand - his troublesome feelings. In the meantime, we would eat, drink and be merry.

It was a fine meal indeed; Cook did us proud and her apple pie- a masterpiece. But I was itching to talk with Roderick and fought the urge to dismiss my guests early, a social mishap in these circles. They lingered after dinner drinks, cigars, talk of politics, the grand opening of the new Royal Court theatre. It was of no surprise that inevitably talk turned to Jack.

“Detective Inspector Reed has his hands full with this investigation and I read in The Times this morning that a new fellow, Donald Swanson, is heading up the investigation. If Scotland Yard fails to solve this case, no one can,” said Cyril, with a look of disdain, never one to give praise to Scotland Yard.

“I’m positive he will be caught, he’s bound to slip up at one point. I hear they’re going house to house questioning residents in the area and there’s even talk of a vigilante group going around the streets at night.” The Captain was clearly in a different frame of mind, although he did possess very moral views that would slip out with alarming regularity. “Of course, we could argue that the streets are better off without women of
that
nature.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, after all they are a disservice. Women of ill repute bring extra crime to the streets of London.” Mr. Fitzgerald surprised me, as a devout Christian and a missionary, I wrongly assumed he had compassion to those less fortunate than himself.

The discussion continued, as I preferred to stay in the background and remain the gracious host not wanting to offend. But I breathed a sigh of relief when the last carriage appeared outside. With the house now empty, and the staff downstairs, I could get on with planning my agenda. I was, regardless of risk, prepared to take myself into the dark poverty stricken hole that had become Jack’s hunting ground.

There was always a possibility that I would come to harm. I had been, many times. Too many to mention. So far I have rejuvenated, often instantly or within minutes and long may it stay that way.

On the other hand if I was to be so unfortunate as to be cut wide open, there would be no telling if I survived. The last time my innards were attacked was right here in fourteenth century England. Far from pleasant and, a lucky escape. I preferred not to dwell on the experience; counting myself most fortunate not to have met such a grisly end.

The moment we were alone, Roderick thrust another invoice in my hand. “This must be signed also. The other thing Copper will make the dock delivery later tonight.” This was our young lad who delivered opium to the dens in Lime House. In return, I would pay him enough to live better than some. He was skilled at the job, keeping his head low and avoiding the authorities who tended to turn a blind eye. I supplied a small Chinese community who indulged regularly. It brought in a tidy sum, extra I could lock away free from taxes.

By day I sold opium imports to pharmaceutical companies for medicinal purposes, fortunate, there was little or no control on its distribution. I was free to sell it wherever there was a demand.

“I know you don’t approve of some of my practices. But I hope you can see that I do no harm. These people desire opium and I supply a good quality product. They are assured buying from me guarantees them a speedy delivery with minimum risk,” I said.

“Your justification does nothing to sway me from my view of this illegal practice, Manny.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, my name is Emmanuel.”

“You have more name changes than I have hot dinners.”

“What I choose it to be is up to me, my friend. That’s the advantage of being immortal. I can dream up any identity and make as much wealth as I desire. Just as you can and do.”

“Thirty coins were never enough Judas. You have gone through every century desiring more and more. What does it say in the Bible? That the greedy man curses and spurns God. Have you forgotten? Where is
your
conscience?” he replied with great sarcasm.

“My dear friend, have you not noticed my trials and tribulations as I try to recover the coins? Hopefully in exchange for absolution?”

“When you bother to look. I’ve known you long enough to see you don’t take it seriously. Jesus
begorrah
!”

Our argument raged on. But he was correct on one point. What on earth was I thinking to be involved in the illegal sale of opium and revel in my obsession for increased wealth? Why had God not yet struck me down for my selfishness and greed? I was weak from the moment I stole the thirty pieces and, to this day, the abnormality clings to my being like a leech.

Eight coins recovered, eight alone. I
must
find the rest. I admit to having a penchant for fantasy. Imagining I were to stumble upon the remaining coins purely by chance. My lack of enthusiasm needed to change, forthwith

For my indifference to the sale of illegal opium I make no apology, it was too late, the damage already done.
But
I can exonerate myself a little by stopping Jack and, with good fortune, appease Roderick. I could offer no more to the proud Celtic immortal whose life ended and rejuvenated in a watery bog in Ireland long ago. How we met is another story.

“I expect you to make work of this hunt, Manny, and I’ll give you assistance. But I’m asking you, please do not expect me to wander the dirty streets of Whitechapel. The place is an abomination.”

“I promise not to press you to accompany me. I ask only for your support, nothing more.”

In spite of our occasional differences, I would lay my life down for Roderick, who suffered greatly with his sometimes hideous complexion. Due the length of time the poor chap was under water, he would, on a daily basis, mix any concoction, dirt or ashes from the fire to darken his deathly pale complexion. Upon knowing his true identity, and predicament, Marianne thoughtfully purchased the darkest face powder used by performers. It enabled Roderick to look as natural as possible with relative ease of application. ‘We don’t want to see a clown,’ Marianne remarked, making sure he applied the correct amount. The poor air quality of the east-end could easily affect his breathing, shallow at the best of times. No one, apart from me, was allowed to see Roderick without his darkened glasses. His blue eyes were tainted with specks of gold flickering constantly, giving the appearance of someone quite unnatural and possibly evil. They didn’t know him like I did. A strong and fearless man, the opposite of evil, but first impressions were imperative, hence the glasses.