Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (5 page)

I was, by my own wayward decisions, already predestined to be damned long before I became immortal. As I walked beside Jesus, I was to be the betrayer, long before I sold his soul for a mere thirty shekels. There would be no taking into account the dire consequences, instead driven by greed, I took the wrong road. By today’s standards those shekels would be a healthy sum, but they were to become my downfall.

Memories taunted me. The Gospel of Barnabas, a medieval document, claimed with certainty it was I, not Jesus, crucified on the cross. The story is a fantastical work of fiction, one I have chosen to ignore, along with countless other theoretical assumptions. I did not take kindly to scholars profiting from my life and that of Jesus, particularly when all they did was surmise. Of course, I am prevented from coming forward to challenge and refute the claims. I would probably be put in chains and locked up in the madhouse, not something I’d relish. These reoccurring thoughts plagued my sleep on a regular basis and at dawn, after less than two hours of slumber, I awoke to the knowledge today would be the day I make my way to Scotland Yard with a good story to credit myself and a plan.
Yes,
a plan!

Over a hearty breakfast of bacon, poached eggs and black pudding, I was interrupted by Edward with the morning post. There was nothing to pay attention to or divert me from the journey to Whitehall. So far the morning was going well and, as I climbed into the carriage, I thought long and hard on what I would say. That I was a private investigator trained in New York under the wing of one Bernard Flowers, a gentleman with a fine reputation. I was skilled enough to offer my services, I had much free time on my hands and the funds needed to gather information. Bernie did indeed exist. Apart from the fact his true profession, a importer of the finest cigars to the residents of the new wealthy of Manhattan, there was partial truth in my story. If they were to contact him, he would inform them I was indeed who I said I was, being a good sport and a lover of intrigue. I arrived at Scotland Yard full of confidence they were naive enough to believe my concocted story. Being able to convince mortals of my numerous identities had become a finely practiced art, taking great care never to give anything away in my body language. With my head held high, I entered the tall, imposing building in the hope of speaking with Chief Inspector Donald Swanson, now leading the investigation.

A regular policeman greeted me from behind a desk.

“Good morning sir. What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

“I wish for a meeting with Chief Inspector Swanson on an urgent matter.”

“Can you please tell me what the urgency is, sir?”

“I need to discuss the recent Whitechapel murders.”

“Do you have information that may help the case?”

“No, but I can be of great assistance,” I replied, sensing it was not going to be as easy as I anticipated. He may have only been a desk sergeant but he had the power to send me away post haste. He inspected me closely with mistrust and confusion, as if unsure what to do next. I presumed he’d put me in the category of the vigilantes who were running in droves, self-policing the streets of Whitechapel.

“I will see if the Chief Inspector is free. Can I ask who wishes to speak with him?”

“My name is Emmanuel Ortiz,” I replied, noting he had dropped the ‘sir.’

It was as if I could read his mind. My somewhat exotic name was not befitting an English gentleman; the frown he exhibited, typical of many in this Victorian age of snobbery.

After a long wait on a hard wooden bench, a slightly portly man, dark hair severely styled to the side, walked toward me. His curled moustache caught my attention as well as a most serious disposition.

“Good morning, Mister Ortiz. I understand you are seeking information concerning the Whitechapel murders.” He was polite and, as I rose, shook my hand.

“Well, yes, I would like to offer my assistance. Is there somewhere we can discuss this in private?”

“Follow me.” He led me to a private room, its glass door proudly bearing a plaque with his name.

Considering his stature of Chief Inspector, the unpretentious plain wood desk and one cabinet, where I assumed his files were kept, did not do his rank any justice. Scattered on the desk were papers, some of them accidentally marked by ink, a careless hand indeed.

“Explain to me who you are and why you think you can assist in the difficult case of Jack the Ripper,” he demanded.

I dutifully told my story in a calm and reserved manner so as not to arouse suspicion. Having become an expert in the art of convincing, I hoped my confidence was apparent.

“We do not have the funds to pay a private investigator. I’ll wager they are more popular in America where, how shall I put it, people are more prone to gimmicks.”

“I can assure you, good sir, that my services are being offered for free. It is an altruistic act on my part. I am not searching for monetary gain.” I did not care to respond to his view that Americans were prone to gimmicks. It was far from the truth and he had surely been ill informed. But I did need to persuade him I was a competent individual, neither a charlatan nor a misguided, eccentric crackpot.

“Then you are aware of the most recent murders since August. Mary Anne Nichols, Catherine Eddowes, Elizabeth Stride, and Annie Chapman have been killed in the most brutal fashion. We think the previous killings in the area may be linked to the same assailant. This is a perpetrator of evil intent, the heinous nature of his crimes has left some of the younger less experienced constables in shock and unable to work for many days after.”

“I have become accustomed to crime on my travels, particularly in areas where there is abject poverty. I can assure you, Chief Inspector, I am not easily unnerved by the sight of blood or gore.”

He shuffled uneasily in his chair. “So, do you expect to accompany my officers?”

“No, sir, I prefer to work alone.”

“Are you serious? A gentleman of your standing wandering unaccompanied will stand out a mile in Whitechapel. It will make you vulnerable to attack or robbery.”

“I will take my chances and I would appreciate it if you will let me see the reports.”

“Are you quite mad?” he replied in bewilderment.

“No, sir, I am, at the very least, determined.”

“I am unable to let you see the reports, they are highly confidential. But I will ask for a young constable to take you to the crime scenes. There you will see for yourself the precise area where he has roamed and killed. Pardon me for not taking you seriously and I urge you, with respect, not to interfere in any way with our investigation. Doing so will result in consequences.”

“Certainly, and I confess myself to be overly grateful to you Chief Inspector Swanson, overtly.”

It was likely I over complemented the man as he said little more to me, instead directing me to the front desk where I was to wait for a willing constable to take me to Whitechapel. It proved to be a very long wait. I whiled away the time observing the comings and goings that were mostly mundane, as I told myself to be patient. I was being viewed as someone to be humored and, although a trite disappointed our meeting had been so fleeting, it was of no consequence what he thought of me.

“Mr. Ortiz, I’m Constable Fletcher. Please, follow me.” A young constable appeared to take the role of escort, I considered him to be better than nothing.

He walked me in direction of a familiar black police carriage that was to take me forthwith to Whitechapel with consternation. Throughout the journey I quizzed Constable Fletcher, who it appeared was most agreeable to a discussion. “It’s a pickle and a half, this case. He’s a slippery customer alright and he cuts them up good. I reckon he’s enjoying it, the mutilation and all.”

“Do you not think this person has knowledge beyond the layman? His removal of organs, for example?”

“I’d ‘eard that he could be a fancy surgeon or even a royal.”

Our carriage ground to a halt by Duffield’s Yard, a narrow passageway just off Berner Street.

It was here, on the thirtieth of September, that Elizabeth Stride’s body was discovered in the early hours. Due to lack of street cleaning, faint traces of blood remained on the pavement, reminding me just how severe the attack had been.

“He slit the poor woman’s throat, nothing else,” the constable stated.

“Perhaps he was interrupted? Which rendered him incapable of his intention to mutilate the body?”

“Now, the worse is yet to come. I’ll take yer to Twenty Nine Hanbury Street. That’s where they found Annie Chapman on the eighth of September.”

Our carriage took direction to Spitalfields, a borough that had once been home to some of England’s finest weavers. Now its decrepit, crime ridden streets were as dangerous at night as could be imagined. But this was late morning and the area was a bustle with people going about their business. The rag and bone man called out for any used items to sell, the coal man, his face black as soot and his hands worn down, delivered coal to those who could afford it. I observed, through the carriage window, the sights and sounds of the poor trying to make good another day, with no time to think on whether they were to survive or not. Diseases was rife in this area and most were deadly, forcing families to have many children in the hope at least some would survive beyond childhood.

This used to be where Annie Chapman had plied her trade in the dead of night and was brutally slain with no witnesses. Scotland Yard remained unsure all the killings had been carried out by one man, even speculating it was a crazed woman seeking revenge for her husband’s involvement with a prostitute.

As we walked to the backyard of Annie’s former lodgings, there was a grim sense of foreboding. Constable Fletcher guided me to where her body had lain, discovered by a resident of number twenty nine.

“’Er throat was sliced wide open and the poor woman’s abdomen was open wide. ‘e’d cut ‘er so bad that the intestines were out, ‘anging over her shoulders they were as she lay in a pool of blood. There weren’t no sign of the woman’s uterus, neither.”

“Are you a resident of the area, Constable Fletcher?” I enquired politely.

“Nah, not from this neck of the woods. I was born in Mile End, I was. We ain’t ‘ad no victims down there.”

It was as if he possessed a sense of pride the gruesome murders had been contained, that the problem belonged only to the people of Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Yet, a grain of truth lay in his words, for the residents in west London were no more fearful of recent events in east London than they were of a fly intruding into their dining room. There was, I concluded, a true sense of detachment broken only by the experience of standing so close to where he had struck.

Prostitutes, harlots or women of ill repute, I had encountered them along the way. From the high class courtesans of Roman times to the street walkers of Victorian London.

Ladies of the night that pleasured men who might otherwise forced themselves on their wives, men who suffered loneliness and those with perversities too severe to disclose-except to prostitutes. They fulfilled desires and I was certain there was many a wife relieved her husband’s needs were being met elsewhere.

The services these ladies offered may have been judged harshly by puritans and the like, but no matter what, they did not deserve to suffer in such a terrible manner; the killer needed to be stopped.

“Mr. Ortiz, sir. Sir,” Constable Fletcher was calling me, but I had been taken up with my thoughts.

“Mr. Ortiz!”

“Yes, Constable, forgive my rudeness, but I was thinking of something.”

“Penny for yer thoughts?” he asked.

“That Annie knew her killer.”

“We don’t ‘ave any evidence of that, sir. In fact, we’ve got very little.”

“Did you attend any of the crime scenes directly after?”

“Only Annie. It was the worst site of me life I can tell yer, made me proper sick it did.”

I needed to return home and confide in Roderick, whom I was certain would be pleased. I was embarking on what I set out to do, but I was overly concerned of the outcome.

“If you don’t mind my saying, proper mad it is, gentlemen like you in Whitechapel walking on yer tod. The robbers will have yer before you could blink and there ain’t always a copper to call for.”

“I understand your concern, Constable, but I have no fear, they can do me no harm.”

He looked at me in a strange way and I knew he mistook my fearlessness for false bravado. Who could blame him for perceiving me that way? It was the impression I gave.

I, in turn, studied the young man before me. Barely in his twenties, his face yet to be contoured by life and its worries. I doubted he was skilled yet in the art of meanness or prejudice, perhaps he never would and, in turn, become a fine person with good qualities. It was at that precise moment I felt a pang of envy. He was what I wanted to be. Young blood coursing through his veins, about to set out on the journey of life, maturing into adulthood with a wife and children. Becoming a grandfather with wise words for the grandchildren who will sit on his knee. Dying safe and warm, surrounded by cherished loved ones. The dream of a woman to love and comfort me remained a desire that did not diminish. But the end of my life eluded me and I had come to accept that it was to be my penance, to suffer in uncertainty.

“I ‘ave to get back to the station sir, can I drop you somewhere?”

“I would like to go to the Old Bell Tavern in Fleet Street, if that will not be an inconvenience.”

“I’ll ‘ave you there in a jiffy,” he replied jovially and no more was said about Jack as we made our way. I was certain Albert would be there, ensconced in discussion with his fellow newspaper men. The table full of beer mugs as they exchanged information discussed deadlines and quarreled. Jack the Ripper had become a boiling hot potato and every pressman in the country vying for an exclusive front page story. Their days were spent commuting between Whitechapel, Scotland Yard, Fleet Street, a variety of Inns and the office. Each new murder brought more tension as the quest for answers heightened.

“’Ere you are, sir,” said the most agreeable young constable as the carriage drew up to the Inn.