by Aiden James
“Sir, did you know they have the Elephant Man up there?” he said, pointing to an annex window high on the top floor. I confessed to knowing nothing of the man.’
“Haven’t you read it in the newspapers?” he enquired.
“I have been occupied with other things, so tell me, who is this Elephant Man?”
“His name is Joseph Merrick and he’s been up there a couple of years now. His deformed face is a sight of horror. When he’s out on the streets he puts a sack over his head so not to scare people. I’d read that when his mother was with child she was stamped on by an elephant. The newborn came out all disfigured, that’s why they call him ‘Elephant Man.”
“Do they say why he is kept so confined in the hospital?” I asked, finding the elephant stampede a far-fetched and unlikely story.
“He’s under the wing of a surgeon called Edward Treeves, who examines him closely like he’s some sort of experiment. There are rumors Princess Alexandria has paid the elephant man a visit as well as other prominent members of society, apparently they take tea with him.”
I appreciated the insightful story of Joseph Merrick, but my interests lay elsewhere. I exited the carriage and made my way into now familiar streets and alleyways wanting to see Mary, hoping she was safe. Unsure of what might lay ahead, I ventured my way through foul smelling alleyways, arriving in Berner Street.
Notorious as a location for thieves and vagabonds to gather and await their unsuspecting prey, I found myself in the thick of it. Half obscured men stood in dark corners, glancing as I walked past, cigarettes glowing red in the dark, the smell of pipe smoke… occasional murmurings. Roderick warned me to beware of this street. That policeman never walked alone fearful of attacks. I could see and feel the lawlessness in a street run by gangs of unscrupulous vigilantes offering protection to those they convinced needed it.
Unfortunately, this also meant extorting money from shopkeepers to remain crime free. I imagined there were dire consequences if they failed to pay up.
Two men approached, their cloth caps partially concealing their faces and something to say.
“It ain’t safe for a gent like you down ‘ere. Why don’t you move on?”
“I am just going about my business, I can assure you that I take good care at all times.”
“We’re telling yer again, this ain’t a good spot for strangers. Best you bugger off.”
Their concern was touching, but I met so called vigilantes in the past. They did little to help mostly hindering, their motives dubious. I took their advice and moved on, pounding the dirt-ridden rat infested streets hour after hour to no avail. At one point I was sure I was going round in circles, arriving back in the street I left. There was no-one to ask for directions, not a soul within sight as an eerie silence descended. Was everyone staying behind locked doors for fear he may strike again? A sheer stroke of luck came my way when I stumbled upon Rosie’s house.
I immediately knocked on the door, hoping for sight of Mary. Rosie was far from amused when I asked only for her.
“I ain’t got no place for that bloody mare right now, she’s taking extra from the punters behind me back… I’ve got Lily and Ethel, clean and fresh, they’re available.”
I declined, of course, and as I continued through the maze of alleys, I began to feel my nose nicely back in place and the pain from the stab wound little more than history. It was my feet that were starting to pain from the incessant walking on rough uneven cobbles. Reluctantly after yet another fruitless night, I headed in the direction of the cabs in the vain hope one would be available to take me home. I was out of luck. There were none to be seen, leaving me with no choice but to wait patiently in the cold and dark, pondering and analyzing my precarious situation.
As time passed, realization dawned. I was to set about informing everyone, apart from Roderick and Albert that I was journeying to York to stay with a friend. My return not yet confirmed as my friend was to be in poor health. I would take temporary lodgings in Whitechapel, where I would proceed to immerse myself in the comings and goings. Detective work required dedication and an immersion into the case. It was the only recourse left if I was to hunt down whoever committed these crimes and stop him, impossible to do from the comfort of Belgravia.
With my decision made, it was more than one hour past before I was fortunate to secure a carriage home, for which I was very grateful.
Tired and cold I slipped into my bed-chamber unseen, the house deathly quiet with everyone sound asleep. After another fitful few hours I awoke early and instructed Edward to pack some clothes. I enjoyed a light breakfast of scrambled eggs and eagerly wrote letters to those who needed to know. ‘I will be away from London for a short while. I wrote. My dear friend Elijah Rutherford the Third is in ill health. This news has compelled me to travel to York to be by his side. Rest assured I will return in due course. Yours faithfully, E. Ortiz.’
In order to cover my tracks, I planned to have Douglas first take me to the office and leave me there. I would then secure a cab to Whitechapel. My household had to be kept in the dark; a clandestine operation required attention to every detail.
“I will return when I see fit, Edward,” I said in a calm tone of voice. “Please be sure the house stays in order.”
“Of course, sir. You can depend on me that everything remains ship shape. I wish your friend a speedy recovery.”
I made sure to remember the precious files from the safe. They were to come with me and transfer to the safety of the office; under lock and key.
At first sight of the luggage, Roderick winced. He knew I was journeying somewhere, but where?
“I am off to Whitechapel, to take lodgings and find Jack.”
“Irresponsible and beyond belief, my dear man. How will you manage your way in the lions den of the east-end? Good God Judas, are you bloody mad?”
I did not expect his Irish temper to flare in the face of my decision. Although genuinely concerned for my well being, I thought he had become too overprotective of my welfare.
“I know you believe you have your feet firmly set in England, after so long being here, but never have you lived in such a place. How, pray, will you manage more than one night? I must come with you, Manny, I don’t want you to be alone.”
I told him I was to leave immediately if he wished to join me. I needed to make haste as I had become full of reliance and confidence, trusting in God’s protection.
“Then we must leave now, but what of the business? Malcolm is too young to hold such responsibility?” said I.
“I will return to the office tomorrow and every day for a few hours so as not to arouse suspicion. Firstly, I must gather clothes and then we can make our way to Whitechapel in search of lodgings. What of Albert, will you let him know your plans?”
“I will find him at the Inn later and I am assured he will keep the confidence. There is already a deep secret between us. The files.”
My lack of sleep was beginning to tell as we made our way to Roderick’s wonderful suite of rooms in London’s fashionable Mayfair. His needs were fairly simple. In spite of the regal plantation in rural Virginia, his impression upon seeing his new luxury rented home secured by me was one of money wasting and frivolity. I could never be sure if he was truly settled, as he did his utmost to suppress the desire to leave.
Once inside, there was frantic hurrying to pack.
“Roderick, we are not being hunted. Can you please take your time?” I remarked. It was pleasant to be seated in a comfortable chair where I closed my eyes for a minute or two.
“Wake up, I’m ready to leave.” His voice awoke me with a startle. In a shortness of time, I had fallen into a deep slumber unaware it had been of a moment during which Roderick packed what he needed.
“From now on until it is over, I promise you that there will be no regrets, no matter the outcome,” said I, ardently.
“Now where have I heard that before? It seems we keep on having the same conversations, including the perp
etual conclusion that my Gaelic eludes you. There is never a reason for you to not understand what I say. So, with good faith I am telling you now, when all is done, so am I.”
“Can you expand on what you mean when you say all is done?”
“That this Jack the Ripper folly will be out of your system, there are coins to be found, a far more urgent matter, as well as your business interests.”
I did not share his view, the coins could wait. I was fixated, for I had veered to another challenge, and it was thrilling.
My excitement heightened as we hailed a carriage to take us to Whitechapel. The driver was indeed surprised when told of our destination, two gentleman leaving Mayfair to travel eastward was, I suppose, a strange request. I asked that we be dropped at Whitechapel High Street.
“I wish for us to secure decent lodgings close to the hospital. It will be the best location I can think of.”
“I am not expecting anything short of very basic or, at worst, filthy,” replied Roderick.
We were dropped close to the Hospital and preceded along Whitechapel Road until we found a suitable place. Within fifteen minutes we had the good fortune to come across what appeared to be fair lodgings. In place of the common rags that adorned most windows were prim and proper curtains. I was the one to knock on the door with Roderick holding back, and suspicious of the middle-aged woman who opened it.
“Yeah, what can I do for yer?” she shouted.
“We would like two rooms please, madam, if they are available,” I asked with extreme courtesy.
“Are you two gent’s doctors from the ‘ospital? I get a lot of ‘em staying ‘ere an’ I prefer it. Respectful lodgings these are, not for market boys, immigrants or drunkards.”
“We are men of business and we have the means to pay for our rooms in advance.”
The door opened wider and she ushered us into her parlor where she proceeded to find fault with Roderick’s appearance. In typical east-end fashion, her bluntness had no boundaries, “Why is ‘e wearing those blackened glasses? Makes me nervous it does, proper nervous and while I’m on the subject, ‘es lanky ‘as ‘ell with a limp an all.”
“I have a condition that precludes me to wear the darkest glasses; the lankiness, which I’m assuming to be my height, is down to a family trait. I need a cane to help heal my broken bones.” Replied Roderick, secretly grinning. His intention was to give the right information to appease her over-enquiring mind.
“Yer never said ‘e was a Mick. I don’t normally let ‘em stays in me ‘ouse on account of ‘em drinking too much beer and swearing like troopers. I might be cockney but I got standards” she said, referring her slandering ‘Irish’ comment to me.
“I am neither a drunkard nor do I use bad language, madam,” replied Roderick in stern defense.
“Alright, but I run a tight ship ‘ere. No bringing ladies back or getting drunk, an’ its three shillings a night each. If you wanna stay out after I lock up then it’s extra for the key.”
“We will be requiring a key.” Whether she was overcharging was of no consequence. The lodgings were respectable, and although our sleeping rooms were sparse, they were clean. I could not wait to go back onto the streets of Whitechapel, fighting the tiredness threatening to overwhelm me with each passing moment.
hich direction do we take? I need to eat, my stomach is rumbling hard.” Roderick was restless, but I assured him we would find a suitable place before any other business. I had to agree, hunger was becoming an issue. I tended to ignore the reactions when strangers encountered Roderick. Mostly he did the same, but occasionally he would respond, much to my frustration.
“Gabh mo leiscéal!” he remarked to a man who stopped to stare.
“There is an eating establishment next to the hospital,” I said, hoping to remove him from a possible confrontation. He followed me, but not before stepping in front of the man to whisper something in his ear.
“What did you say to him?”
“I said excuse me.”
I refrained from asking why on earth he had excused himself-maybe sarcasm or Irish humor. His manners were particularly civil, for which I credited him, but there were occasions when he was caustic. This was to be one of them.
We found what appeared to be a decent eatery further along the high street with an impressive interior. I felt at home surrounded by pristine white tablecloths and good quality cutlery neatly laid, along with smartly dressed waiters in white jackets. It was a paradox, not what I expected in the middle of a deprived area. The customers were made up mostly of medical staff from the hospital, who, I noted immediately, were struck with Roderick’s height.
The menu, however, was far from impressive. If I was expecting tournedos with wild mushrooms and orange crepes for dessert, I would be disappointed. The choice of Whitechapel steak pie with mash potatoes, stewed eels, Irish lamb stew or whitebait made up the entire menu. Tentatively, we ordered two plates of the pie and mash, which arrived, covered with a strange, thin green sauce.
“Parsley,” said Roderick having watched my confusion.
“What of parsley?”
“They use it to make the sauce green. I should have ordered the Irish stew.”
I had tasted better than this local dish, not known outside the confines of the east-end. It was decidedly stodgy; neither of us enjoying a sauce that had been slopped all over the pie, a mushy meal indeed. With our stomachs heavy, I was pleased to settle the bill and leave, vowing never to be taken in by first impressions again. There was no time for hesitation as we made our way to the narrow streets and alleys that in daylight afforded much more scrutiny. I needed to know my whereabouts and find The Three Crowns public house in Goulston Street. I was searching for a chap named Reginald Belvers, a former friend of Elizabeth Stride, who claimed in the witness reports to have stumbled across her lifeless corpse in Berner Street.
It was a long shot he would be in the public house and I was depending on someone who may have known him or his residence. Belvers also spoke in his statement of seeing a shadowy figure of a man just before he discovered Elizabeth.
The Three Crowns was a popular Whitechapel drinking establishment with a respectable landlord. Altogether a typical east-end gathering spot. The day hours meant little change in behavior. Rowdy entertainment was in progress, aided by a drunken piano player who ignored a young woman, worse for drink, who proceeded to sing ‘Home Sweet Home’ very badly. Swaying her skirt up to reveal her ankles, and more, the men cheered and encouraged her.
Three men sat in a corner table full of empty glasses, their eyes glazed. An older woman, her lipstick smeared and her hat in disarray, sat close to the counter with tears in her eyes as she shared the story of a lost love; a sailor who went out to sea and did not return for many a year. When he did, his love for her had gone, for he found another in a far off land. She told this to a companion, a man whose drunkenness was so severe he had fallen asleep on the counter, his head tucked under his arms whilst he remained precariously on a stool.
I could not help but have a tinge of sadness for the woman with a gin in her hand; doomed to repeat her tale of woe to anyone she encountered, drunk or sober. I met many like her, one of life’s lost souls. Were she and I so different? Perhaps we even shared the same fate, destined to never find our true path as unhappiness stopped us at every turn. Did I fare any better than an impoverished woman who spent endless days and nights drowning her sorrows in cheap alcohol while she wished for a fairy tale? No, she and I were equal. Except, unlike her story of unrequited love, I betrayed the person I loved and admired, thus changing the course of history.
“A penny for your thoughts, Manny?” Roderick asked while he slowly sipped ale.
“I was just in thought of… of… well, I was thinking what would Jesus have done?”
“Do you mean what he would have done about Jack? I don’t know. You know the answer better than I, you knew him inside out. What would he have done then?”
“He would have said to
show mercy, to forgive those who did not know what they were doing. But what if it is that heathen Ratibor? He is evil to the core and cannot be redeemed because I know he walks with Satan. Am I to be forced to walk by with forgiveness in my heart for the acts of the devil?”
“No, of course not. These poor girls have been slain for no reason other than they happened in the wrong place. If it is Ratibor, and you don’t stop him, he will continue to kill.”
A man of an epic proportion, a sadistic brute with superhuman strength and a passion for inflicting pain. I was no match. He survived many centuries, giving him the fortuity to improve his art. I was in no doubt he had traveled through them causing mayhem and murder.
“Landlord, can you please tell me if a Reginald Belvers is here?” I asked.
“In the corner over there, the one with the moustache.”
He pointed to a heavy set man with a cloth cap and ale in his hand. He sat alone and appeared to acknowledge no one.
“I beg your pardon, sir, are you Reginald Belvers?” I asked politely.
“Who’s asking?” he replied, with a strong northern accent.
“My name is Emmanuel Ortiz, and this is my associate Roderick Cooley. We are privately investigating the murder of Elizabeth Stride. I understand you were acquainted.”
“What do you mean by private? I’ve never ‘eard of such a thing. Bloody coppers, that’s what yous are.”
“No, certainly not, we are, how shall I put it, detectives of a private nature.”
“I’ve nowt to say to yer and if you’re from the newspaper, you can piss off!”
I spent the next five minutes convincing Reginald that in America there were private detectives. In England it was relatively new, barely heard of, but growing slowly.
“What’s wrong with yer friend, dark as night ’e is,” he replied, referring to Roderick’s complexion. “If the man is sick I don’t wanna catch nowt. I’ve never seen glasses so black before. What’s ‘e hiding?”
“Unfortunately, Roderick is inflicted with a blood condition, hence the skin color. The glasses are necessary because of his sensitivity to the light. There is nothing for you to fear, it isn’t catching.”