Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections)

by Aiden James

  “Not for me… talk or brandy, I want nothing.”

  “What is it that’s irking you, my friend?” I asked, concerned.

  “That’s a bothersome missy, irritating and very annoying at times. Good God man, can’t you see she is madly in love with the great Judas? Robert Platt is only a pawn she’s using in the vain hope of evoking anger and jealousy within you.”

  “I see it, but want can I do? She is well aware that my intentions toward her are not of the romantic kind.”

  “Then why did you bed her?”

  “A stupid, thoughtless mistake, passion getting in the way of reason. I cannot make my point any stronger than I have done. If she chooses not to listen, then it’s not my concern.”

  Our conversation reached a stalemate. Attempting to speak with my closest friend about a woman he found so disagreeable was futile and best forgotten, but not for Roderick.

  “I am anxious to see you settled, Manny. I don’t mean you have to marry, just settle and be responsible.”

  “I desire to be settled and I was. Well I thought as much. What I mean to say is that I am doing my best to focus on matters of importance. The Ripper case is far too intriguing to ignore and, rightly or wrongly, I intend to follow it through.”

  Could it be two immortals drifting through centuries, sometimes together, was a bad mix? The challenges we faced, best left ignored, as we did our utmost to live amongst mortals, forced to be but a caricature of our true selves. Level minded Roderick was a rock in my storm, and while his advice was given in good intentions, severing ties would be inconceivable.

  He left on a good note after I informed him, once I had done what I needed to do in Whitechapel, I would, at my earliest convenience, work on expanding the business. With good intentions, attempt to find a suitable manager to take some of the burden. There would be a slight increase in salary for Malcolm, relieving his burden and securing his future. My selfless suggestion went down extremely well. For once I pleased him.

  I retired to sleep on a positive note. News of the files would come soon, enabling me to finally begin the hunt and, in spite of her passions for me, dear sweet Marianne had found happiness at last. Too much free time forced me to become very reflective. The past, present and future collided often in muddled thoughts. My behavior, somewhat impetuous and irresponsible, led me into hot water too many times to mention and, in moments of isolation, memories of the past intruded. I feared the wrath of God from the very first moment I wronged him, straight after I awoke from self-strangulation and scurried far away into obscurity. I had no understanding at that point I was still alive, assuming I had become a phantom ghost and denied access to the kingdom of heaven. Doomed to wander, unseen, for all eternity. Alas, I was to be seen by everyone I encountered, a new beginning in purgatory. My God discussions, prayers and pleads became so entwined in my immortality, I could not imagine ever not talking with him or writing down my thoughts, often no more than mere ramblings.

  ‘God, I harbor a deep desire for you to forgive me my sinful ways. I fully admit to have stolen, fornicated, lied and manipulated before and after my immortality. Yet, the Bible states we are all born with original sin, therefore I am predisposed. But I have confessed, therefore, I do deserve your mercy. What of my dishonest selling of opium? Will that doom me to eternal punishment, or does it matter when I am already in purgatory?’ I asked many times for compassion, forgiveness, understanding and tolerance, often wondering if he had turned his back on me. And… what of Jesus? Was he looking down on me with disdain, or pity and a warm, forgiving heart?

  After a restless night, I awoke to the sound of a knock at the door. It was Edward, with a much anticipated telegram from Albert.

  ‘On my way to you. Stop. Have gift for grandmother. Stop.’

  I was, in my sleepy state, not quite sure what he meant, and then the realization came. It was a code, a cover. He had obtained the files!

  I hurried my breakfast and perpetually looked out of the window onto the street, eagerly awaiting his arrival with renewed anticipation. One hour later, much to my delight, he was on my doorstep.

  “Master Richards has come to call and needs money for the taxi cab, sir,” Edward announced. Rather typical of Albert to presume payment for his travel expenses was on me.

  His whole demeanor was one of a nervous man hiding something as he rushed me into the corner of the study, urging me to lock the door to keep Edward out.

  “Here, take these,” he whispered, handing me a brown paper parcel. “They are inside, everything you need and I must have three hundred guineas for payment. The scoundrel forced me to pay him fifty guineas in advance before he agreed. He had no trust in me.”

  “A tidy sum, but, I surmise, I’m not able to negotiate with such a man. To whom do I write out the bill of exchange?”

  “Emmanuel, do you wish for the trail to lead back to you? It must be all in cash. If anything should go amiss, then there is no evidence to point the finger in your direction.”

  I had no choice to go to my safe and give Albert money. He was right; a bill of exchange would be too dangerous. What was I thinking?

  “I do not suppose you can reveal the identity of who gained access to the files?”

  “The least you know the better. Let us say it was an inside job and leave it there. Are you not going to open the package to see that everything is in order before you hand over the money and, please, don’t forget my fifty guineas, also?”

  I trusted Albert, but knew nothing of the person who obtained the file. He could have been a conman for all I knew. Carefully, I pulled the string from the brown paper to reveal a buff colored cardboard file. Inside were reams of papers, each one giving great details of each victim, autopsy photographs, names of detectives in charge and a list of possible suspects. I had struck gold!

  “Splendid, Albert, and so quickly done.”

  “You, of course, never asked me for anything and I hope I can trust you to secrecy. After all, according to your story, betrayal is nothing new to you.

  “Do you really think I would do something like that again?”

  “There’s no telling what you will do under pressure.”

  “Maybe I’m not Judas after all, maybe I jest?”

  “Perhaps you do, but I am not prepared to take any risks. Make sure you lock the papers away in a safe place and tell no one!”

  “My lips are to be permanently sealed.” I lied of course, Roderick already knew.

  Albert was forced to leave urgently for a mundane interview with a lowly politician, his mood somber. Worry about such a serious theft outweighed the handsome sum of two hundred pounds he received. I hoped I had the right information in my possession. All told it cost me a considerable amount for what I considered to be a charitable act. Alone, and with the door locked, I began to study my spoils. Formalities and protocol abounded with papers marked ‘confidential do not show to newspapers.’ Pure nonsense, making use of them brings more attention to the general public. A memory is often jogged if something is written or a photograph seen. There were one or two resignations and dozens of letters, scrawls from pranksters who enjoyed taunting the police whilst gaining attention by claiming to be Jack the Ripper. Albert had seen a fair share of them delivered to his office and the police had even gone so far as to accuse the newspapers of creating the letters themselves to increase popularity and sales.

  As I studied the reports, it was clear that no detectives had taken the ‘I am Jack’ letters seriously. Neither did I. Ramblings from the mentally disturbed were little more than a hindrance to my reading. Hastily, I brushed them aside.

  Hour after hour, I perused one file after the other, slowly building a picture of possible suspects in greater detail. Most gruesome were the autopsy photographs, graphic close ups of the victims’ bodies and faces. All of the photographs showed extensive bruising, on the face in particular. This was an angry killer, his inflicted wounds told a story and built a picture of someone with a rage so deep not eve
n Hercules could have restrained him. Marked ‘highly confidential’ each photograph reminded me of what I was dealing with; I spent the rest of the day and night in study, determined to leave no stone unturned. The following morning, unexpectedly, Roderick joined me for breakfast. I was full of adrenalin as I informed him I had the files. Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked to see the smoking gun I held in my possession

  “These words are the work of mad men!” he said as he poured over the infamous letters. “Wait a minute. Manny, these are original letters, Scotland Yard will know they are missing.”

  “Albert explained they were but a handful. There are so many they won’t miss them. It seems that murder brings the unstable out of the shadows. So, what do you think so far?”

  “What I am thinking is, someone is missing copies of their files. How long will it be before they notice they are gone and what will be the reaction when they realize they are missing their autopsy photographs?”

  “Scotland Yard is in chaos over this case. The more I read, the more I see that this investigation is a disarray of grand proportions. In the midst of their confusion they will simply see a file as mislaid and someone will be reprimanded, even suspended. The coroner would have produced more than one photograph and nothing will lead back to me, or the source. I am in the clear.”

  My trait of complacency was an affliction not diminished with time. The view that nothing can happen to me as an invincible immortal put me in the deepest troubles on far too many occasions. Yet I do not learn the lesson and continued to take risks, regardless of consequence. On the other hand, Roderick had a level head on his shoulders, his Irish sense of foreboding sharp and profound. We were at times chalk and cheese.

  “Pray to God Almighty that nothing bad happens to you for this. I don’t have a good feeling.”

  “You worry too much and you’ll see how, when I hand over Jack, they’ll forget all about the file. In the meantime, I will keep good contact with the police. They will not be at all suspicious of me.”

  For hours we labored over a grand stack of papers, meticulously studying every detail. I learned to read and write with perfection over hundreds of years and was surprised to see so many grammatical errors. This was, after all, files from Scotland Yard, supposedly England’s finest police force.

  “You are very much a proper English gentleman, the way you speak, your attire. I should imagine a detective not finding you suspicious of anything on account of your surreptitious nature,” Roderick replied with a grin.

  “I have been around longer, affording me the finer skills in adjusting to almost all surroundings. Adaptation is the key to blending in with impunity. I am also very adept at becoming an aspiring American gentleman or a European man about town if the need arose.”

  Yes, I am a chameleon, able to work on changing my style, speech, language and behavior to suit the century and ever changing with trends and times. What’s an immortal to do, remain stuck a century or two behind? I would surely stick out like a sore thumb.

  “Take a look at this,” I said, handing him a document.

  It speculated Jack may have been of foreign origin. A female witness to Annie Chapman’s last moments had seen her talking with a man and partially overheard the conversation as she was walking by in the early morning hours. Apparently, they were talking very loudly and she heard the man ask ‘will you?’ Annie had replied, ‘yes.’ The witness, Elizabeth Long, came forward with this information and was taken to the mortuary to identify the woman she had seen in Hanbury Street. Upon seeing the body, she confirmed it was the woman she saw, claiming the man was around forty years of age with a quiet disposition, dressed in a dark overcoat and a brown hat partially covering his face. A man not of great height, no more than five feet four inches.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked Roderick, hoping he too sensed the familiarity of the description. “A foreign man, extremely short, dressed in a dark overcoat.”

  “Oh dear God, tell me it’s not who I think it is,” he replied in alarm.

  “What would the chances be? Of all the immortals I encountered, and not that many, I would be so unfortunate to run up against Ratibor.”

  Even the sound of his name being said brought shivers down my spine. He was once a devilish eleventh century warrior who terrorized anyone in his path. He was an evil immortal from the Byzantine Empire who gained pleasure from creating hell on earth. Lo betide anyone who dared to stand up against him.

  Roderick knew much about my time spent in Constantinople and how I watched Ratibor crush the skull of a young maiden who refused his advances. He was a misogynist, a murderer of great strength and capacity, often torturing his victims before he killed them; begging for mercy would be futile, Ratibor’s destructive rage was unstoppable

  It had not been my good fortune to come face to face with his short but muscular frame and blazing black eyes. Upon my confession to another I was immortal and on a quest for coins, word reached him who I was. To prove I was a liar, he attempted to stake me through the heart and missed. Seeing I bled little, and recovered in a second, he challenged me to a duel with swords. We fought, for hours long, until neither won and drew a guarded truce. I despised the man and what he stood for. If he was in London, I was to be assured he continued relentlessly with his killing spree throughout the centuries.

  “I expect that we are only surmising it’s him. It could be all manner of suspects and we have no evidence that the man is here in England,” said Roderick.

  “’Indeed,” I answered, “but we have no evidence to the contrary either.”

  “If it is him, then he’s going to be a challenging adversary. Difficult to stop, I would imagine.”

  Roderick was never far from the truth. How will I stop another like myself, yet more powerful?

  I was to be stopped in my tracks by the unthinkable; someone knocking on the front door.

  “Who can that be? Tradesman always knock downstairs,” said I in panic.

  “Are you expecting anyone? Perhaps it’s Marianne?”

  “No, she assured everyone it would be improper to call on me now she is engaged.”

  We looked at each other in nervous anticipation. I carried the guilt of theft, not a comfortable feeling, by all means. Whoever was calling would be administered a cordial greeting regardless, I could give nothing away. Within moments my worst nightmare unfolded. Edward informed me that a Chief Inspector Donald Swanson wished to see me. “Please ask him to wait.” I kept little variation in my tone, acting as normal as I could under the circumstances, and closed the door. We had but a moment.

  “Lock the file away in the safe, Roderick Quickly, man!” I urged.

  “Eist moran agus can beagan!”

  “What are you saying? You know I have little knowledge of Gaelic.”

  “Hear much and say little!” Roderick’s habit of speaking in his Gaelic tongue when in a tight corner only served to increase my anxiety.

  “I must away, right now!” he said in great panic.

  “Then that would appear mighty suspicious. Wait until the introductions are over then explain calmly you must go to the office, there is urgent business to attend to.”

  I rang the bell for Edward to allow the Swanson fellow to enter my study, as the seconds ticked by; I did my best to bring about composure. I needed the encounter to be favorable, a friendly anticipation and healthy curiosity as to his reason for calling. His appearance gave nothing away- I greeted him cordially.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector, and what a fine winter morning it is.”

  “Yes, it’s temperate weather for the time of year, and I hope all is well with you, Emmanuel.”

  “Very well indeed, and may I introduce Roderick Cooley, my business associate.”

  “An Irish name, Cooley. Are you a Dublin man?”

  I noticed Swanson perusing Roderick carefully, unsure of his appearance.

  “I am now an American residing in Virginia.”

  The fl
at dismissal, bordered on rudeness, did not fare well with me. I needed Roderick to leave, as soon as possible.

  “It is a busy working day today, Chief Inspector, and Roderick must away to the office. Will you please excuse him?”

  “Of course, my dear man. We all have busy lives to attend to.”

  It was a relief to see him go, I hoped, with another century or two under his belt, he will be more confident and adaptable to all predicaments.

  “What do I owe this visit Chief Inspector? Would you care for some tea?”

  “A cup of tea would do nicely, thank you.”

  I rang the bell for Edward to bring a pot of tea whilst I encouraged the Inspector to make himself comfortable. He appeared impressed with my surroundings, admiring some rare antique pieces and enquiring of their history. With the files safely under lock and key, I had nothing to fear.

  While we waited there was idle talk of the weather, current politics and the state of English cricket. The longer we discussed trivial matters the more relaxed I felt, unlike Roderick who was more than likely in a high state of anxiety, brought on by not knowing the outcome.

  With the tea poured and a cake in his hand, he spoke in earnest.

  “I am at a loss with this case. In my entire career I have never had so many false leads, countless witnesses with a different description and too many murders in a short space of time. It has become a chaos at the Yard. Resignations, heated arguments, complications and now to make matters worse, heads will roll on account of missing or stolen files.”

  “Missing or stolen files? How can that be, who was in charge of their security? I hope it was not you, good sir.”

  “No, they were last in the possession of one of the junior detectives, who had been recently assigned to the case. Not a good start to his promotion, I think.”

  “As you say, there is much chaos. I expect they have gone missing rather than stolen, certain to reappear when you are better organized.”

  “I trust your confidence in this matter, Mister Ortiz. Any leakages to the newspapers will be very damaging, as our popularity with the people is at its lowest since we are yet to bring forward an arrest.”