by Aiden James
It was a passionate secret liaison that left me broken and consumed with regret…
“She was fair and beautiful, an Empress of the Byzantine Empire. Sultry, ambitious and dangerous are not words I would use lightly, but they applied. We had a sexual liaison for a while, mostly when her husband Leo the First was away at war. I knew I wasn’t the only one. Her bed was never cold.”
“She must have been a Roman femme fatale. How exciting.”
“In retrospect, she was an opportunist from a family of great wealth. There were three children, one not the son of Leo. She went below her station with someone who was not from a prominent family. To cut the story short, Leo earned the nickname ‘Butcher’ on account of his orders to assassinate anyone who got in his way. Instilling fear, he climbed to the role of Emperor very easily. Personally, I could not stand the man. He ruled with an iron fist and did not give Aelia what she needed, love and passion.”
“So what happened? Do tell!”
“We had delightfully wicked milk baths together while her handmaidens, sworn to secrecy, stayed in the background waiting for us to finish.”
“I did not mean that, Emmanuel. I meant what happened to her and how did it end between you?” she replied, a twinge of jealousy in her tone.
“Oh, I was rejected in favor of another, she simply tired of me. I heard that she’d died mysteriously in the siege of Papyrus. Leo had died years before of dysentery, Aelia quickly remarried, but her turbulent life continued. When the siege was over, they found her body. No one was ever sure how she had met her untimely end.”
“How sad and how fascinating. Her life would make a wonderful play, don’t you think?”
“I’d much prefer to put her out of my mind. The idea of watching her life being acted out on a stage nightly leaves me cold,” said I, shuddering at the thought.
Marianne’s visit did not end as auspiciously as it began. She began to slide closer to me and, in the flickering light of the slowly weakening fire, her eyes filled with wanton desire.
“My dearest friend, I am half inclined to consider that alone as we are, another moment of passion could be shared. But I must say no. I have to take a moral stand and not give in to my weaknesses. I have, by my own admission, enjoyed many pleasures of the flesh and the result has been nothing but emptiness,” I continued, knowing it would offend.
She sighed, her discontentment obvious, “I will go off and marry Robert Pratt, move to Cornwall and have many children!”
She was referring to a self-made businessman, who invested large sums of money in west-end plays. They met at a dinner party where Robert was smitten immediately. A short, dark haired figure of a man, a trite too serious for my liking, and madly in love with Marianne, worshipping the ground she walked on. He offered his hand in marriage on numerous occasions, yet she, up until now, adamantly refused his advances. I sensed he was beginning to wear her down.
“I do not see you settled in Cornwall, baking pies and a large brood of children scurrying around your feet. But you could do far worse than Robert.”
“I could marry you.” Her reply stunned me.
“I am, by my own admission, not in a good place as I am still uncomfortable with the responsibility of marriage. I cannot manage such an undertaking. Forgive me but I have to decline.”
“How many centuries do you need before you see yourself as suitable and prepared?”
“Sweet Marianne, I am unsure. Maybe love will find me in the next century or the one after. Who knows what the future holds and, what if my immortality was to end?”
“Oh, it’s those silly coins again, find the coins and you’ll have salvation.”
Marianne found it too trying when I wanted to discuss the coins. Often exclaiming the notion to be so far-fetched it made her want to laugh.
Occasions when she commented I was the most fascinating storyteller she had ever come across. Other times, she would tell me she believed I was Judas, contradictions I experienced many times with mortals who crossed my path.
“I will resume my search when the moment is right. You, Marianne, are already aware that my interests for the moment lie in business and investments.”
Our conversation became somewhat stilted, due to my rebuttal, which brought about a distinct change of mood.
“I must away. I am very tired and sleep awaits,” said she, her voice muted.
“I do consider you a wonderful friend and confidant,” I replied in earnest.
“I need more than what you offer, good sir!”
There was desperation in her voice, but nothing to be done to appease the situation. Involvement with Marianne would only lead to deep unhappiness for us. Before I embarked on a liaison that would lead to permanence, I needed to focus on my real purpose. To concentrate on my latest business venture, resume my search for coins and, with God’s assistance, catch the infamous Jack the Ripper.
nly on one or two occasions had I ventured through Whitechapel. From the security of my carriage, I had seen it was not a place to visit for leisure unless I desired a prostitute. Ale houses were stacked full of drunken men and women, with deadly diseases rife. The population increased due to a wave of immigrants from around the world and a swell of Jewish refugees fleeing the pogroms. Regrettably, the entire east end was shrouded in abject poverty and hardship, a reminder of past times I witnessed first hand; human beings suffering in great hardship. It would have been easy to walk away and stay in the safe confines of Belgravia, but I had no choice except to see it through. As Roderick stated - to do my moral duty.
With Marianne gone, I retired to my bedchamber where I spared no expense on a wonderful mahogany four poster bed complete with silken sheets and the finest quality blankets. The fire was burning brightly; I stared into the flames thinking about my gift for unintentionally causing unhappiness, perfect moment to berate myself. Day to night was a marked contrast. I could busy myself from morning till late evening but night was another story. Often, alone in my bed, thoughts intruded and memories flooded back. I did not sleep very much, sometimes not at all, and on this particular night it eluded me. Marianne, Roderick and how I was to go about finding Jack weighed heavily on my mind as did my guilt of the past and present.
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 wa
s 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 t
hroat 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.