by Aiden James
“Perhaps you are slumming? We don’t tolerate that on these streets.”
I did not want to be grouped with the bored upper class who deliberately dressed down to visit the worst stricken areas of London. ‘Seeing how the other half lived’ had become such a popular sport, even I had been forced to listen to their misguided adventures at dinner parties.
“I would never disrespect an area in that way, constable. I can assure you my intentions are sincere.”
It seemed to abate him and, with a nod or two, he allowed me to go on my way after a warning to be careful of robbers. He hoped any money on my person was tucked safely away as he gave me information on the finer rules of pick pocketing.
“You’re walking through some of the most crime ridden streets in London, sir, at a very late hour. Also, we still have the Jack the Ripper fella at large. I urge you to proceed with caution.”
It must have appeared irresponsible that I would be foolish enough to walk alone through Whitechapel in the middle of the night, to a constable or anyone. Every now and again a figure would emerge, out of the shadows of a doorway or alley. Male or female, they would follow me with their black rimmed eyes, suspicious of a stranger not dressed in familiar rags or cheap clothing. I could not help but be alerted by every sight or sound, my senses heightened wondering if Jack could be lurking somewhere in the deep dark shadows.
“I will find you, if it takes a hundred nights. I do not care how smart you think you are, and if it is you, Ratibor, I have no fear,” I said aloud.
There was no one to hear my words. If they had, perhaps they would think me quite insane talking to myself. What I said had serious meaning; he would not get away from me without a fight.
But why was I so concerned with catching Jack? I did not have the complete answer other than a wish to stop a madman killing innocent women and getting clean away each time. I also had a secret passion for detection. Not that I wished to be a policeman, although something to do with that type of work was an enticing thought indeed. My thoughts were interrupted when in the distance the sound of a police whistle blew repeatedly. Could it be the Ripper had struck again? I raced in direction of where I thought it might be. It did not take long to find others running in the same direction- as curious as I.
“Keep clear!” A constable stood a short distance from the lifeless form of a young man. Blood was seeping into the gutter from the pavement, a terrible head wound had been inflicted, and so ferocious part of the brain matter was hanging out.
“Stand back,” the constable ordered as people attempted to move closer. His whistle blowing summoned further officers and within minutes it had become pandemonium.
“That’s a young lad, what a sodding shame,” a man next to me remarked, shaking his head.
There was a massive amount of blood spreading rapidly across the pavement. It must have been a heavy weapon to inflict such an injury. I also observed he had been stabbed several times in the chest. It looked like the work of someone with great strength, enough to shatter a skull, and a savage anger. A classic case of overkill. The victim lay on his back, arms outstretched with his eyes wide open in terror. No more than twenty years of age, his clothes worn and his shoes tied with string. The once quiet streets had come alive as more and more people raced to the scene of a crime that appeared to have only just happened. Sadly, there did not seem to be one witness to such a violent and frenzied attack.
“I hope you don’t mind my enquiry, constable, but do you think this could have been the work of Jack the Ripper?” I asked.
“I have no idea. It may have been a dispute or a drunken fight. It’s now a case for Scotland Yard.”
I moved on before the police carriage arrived; whoever committed such a crime could not be far away with the body still warm. I stopped by a streetlamp to think. It was a habit of Ratibor to slice head’s open, a trademark. But I dismissed it as too much a coincidence he and I were in London at the same moment. It was pure imagination Jack was immortal.
Positive thoughts of it being a distinct possibility were dwindling and replaced with doubts. I always went on my trusted instincts. This time, I was, quite frankly, at a loss.
There was never a moment of fear or concern when I walked out for a stroll in the late night hours in Belgravia. Whitechapel was a different world, one where I needed to have my wits about me at all times. What if the young man had been unlucky? A random victim robbed and beaten to death for a few coppers? Was the perpetrator still out there or had he slipped back in the shadows? The further I walked away from the grisly scene the more secure I felt until I was accosted by a woman with a young child hanging onto her apron.
“’Ere Master, I need food for me kids. They’re starving and me little one’s got the scurvy. I ain’t got money for the doctor, ‘elp me, please. ”
I didn’t quite know what to do under the circumstances. The woman and child were in dire straits, it was painfully obvious to see. But, I could not help be a trite suspicious as I peered into the darkness for a male accomplice to appear, primed for attack. No-one came, and I allowed the woman to continue to beg by not moving on. I was not and never would be a missionary or an east end charity worker. That was more Jesus’ style. I was better suited to be the warrior and the hunter.
“I will give you five shillings. It is more than enough to pay for the doctor and purchase food for the children and yourself.”
She took the money eagerly, thanking me profusely and almost bowing in my presence. It was a good feeling to be charitable with a total stranger, even if I did not care to admit it. Perhaps I would hear another tale of woe at the next corner as I searched my pockets for small change in readiness. The streets yielded nothing, no beggars or prostitutes roamed and the deathly quiet made even more sinister by the rain. It came down heavy- my calling card to return to my lodgings before I was soaked to the skin. I pulled out my pocket watch and was most surprised to see it was after midnight. I had walked for hours, covering most of Jack’s route, to find nothing. Suddenly, as if my prayers had been answered, I noticed a male figure walking ahead. In the dim gas light I could make out he was short and wearing a long dark overcoat. Could it be?
“Hey, you there!” I called, in the vain hope he had nothing to hide and would stop. “I said you there. Stop! I must speak with you.”
He stepped up his pace as did I, both of us walking faster by the second. It was important catch up with him, his actions far too suspicious for my liking. The rain began to come down hard, yet it did not stop me from gathering speed. Before I knew it, he broke into a run. Who was he and why would he wish to run away from me? He did not turn around when I called out, perhaps I had been trying to get another’s attention? This man had a guilty conscience.
“Whoa, stop right there. Why are you running?” I could not believe my misfortune, standing in front was the same constable from earlier who stopped and questioned me.
“I am in haste to return to my lodgings, constable. The bad weather has made my walk unpleasant,” I replied, considering my explanation highly feasible.
“Then it’s been a very long walk as it was quite a few hours ago that I asked you to state your business. I think it’s best you accompany me to the station.”
“But why, what do you suspect me of? I have done nothing wrong.”
“Just come with me, there’s a good chap, or I will have no choice but to handcuff you and take you by force. We can’t be careless about strangers in Whitechapel, especially the likes of you”
I realized at that point he was insinuating a suspicion. I could be Jack the Ripper.
The real suspect, who I was convinced was Ratibor, had gotten clean away without a scratch. I, on the other hand was to be marched unceremoniously down to the station for questioning, like a classic fool.
hitechapel Police Station was a sight for sore eyes. I did not expect to grace its doors in such a situation. The building had become the hub of the Ripper enquiry with Scotland Yard’s top detective’s w
orking day and night to solve the case.
The constable was polite but firm, “Follow me, sir, to the sergeant’s desk.”
I did as I was told. There was nothing to hide and any sign of arrogance would not serve me in good faith. The sergeant was a burly man who half listened as the constable explained why he brought me in. I heard the words ‘loitering’ and ‘acting suspiciously.’ The most alarming, ‘suspicion of attempt to procure a prostitute’, caused me to wonder if I needed to secure legal help as soon as possible.
“Name?” the sergeant asked in a very sharp tone of voice.
“Emmanuel Ortiz.”
“That’s an odd name, are you a foreigner?”
“I reside in London, my family are of Spanish descent.”
“Then you’re a bloody foreigner.”
“If you wish to think so, Sergeant, then so be it.”
“Don’t be arrogant with me, you’ll be sorry.”
“A misunderstanding, Sergeant, I apologize.”
After that it was my date of birth, something I always paid attention to. Not seeming to ever look older than in my early thirties, I made sure my birth date appeared feasible. Then it was my address which raised an eyebrow. Belgravia happened to be one of the wealthiest areas of London.
I was made to wait in a small interview room with a duty constable watching over me as I sat in a chair, quiet as a mouse, praying it was all a terrible mistake.
“Cigarette?” asked the constable, offering the packet.
“No, thank you,” said I, becoming impatient.
It was a full hour or more before a young detective came into the room holding what appeared to be papers, never a good sign.
“Emmanuel Ortiz, my name is Detective Edwards and I am arresting you on suspicion of the theft of confidential police files, loitering with intent to secure a prostitute for payment and the illegal sale of opium. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be written down and may be used in evidence against you.”
I had nothing to say as I was truly speechless. How on earth did they link the missing file to me? Who had made a blunder concerning the opium? Prostitutes never, unless, of course, I had been spotted entering Rosie’s establishment. Thoughts raced.
“We have been looking for you these past few days, having first been to your place of residence. The butler, one Edward Brown informed us that you were away to York to visit a sick friend. Why, then, are you here in Whitechapel at the same moment?”
“I will come clean,” I replied, knowing it was the right moment to tell the partial truth. “I am doing my own investigation into the Jack the Ripper murders, having had previous experience in these kinds of operations, though not in London. If you would be so kind to contact Chief Inspector Swanson at Scotland Yard, he will fully explain my intentions. As for prostitution, that is a big misunderstanding on your part. The opium? My company imports and supplies opium legally. We have contracts with pharmaceutical companies who use it in the manufacturing of Laudanum. I have all the papers in my office to prove where it goes. There is nothing illegal about my transactions.”
“From what we have gleaned so far you have considerable wealth, assumed to be gained legally?”
“Of course legally, this business is not managed by me alone. There is a partner.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Roderick Cooley. He is also helping us with our enquiries.”
I could only groan. My fears I would implicate Roderick had become reality. What had I got us both into?
“Chief Inspector Swanson is not here, nor will he be this night. Do you require legal counsel? It is your right?”
“I need someone to contact Mr. Neville Palmer of Baker Street as soon as is possible. He is my solicitor.”
There was a moment of silence, I watched him meticulously fill his quill with ink and write the name down.
“Cup of tea?” said he, without looking up from his writing.
“I beg your pardon?” I enquired, unsure whether it was me he was addressing or the constable standing by the door.
“I asked you if you would like a cup of tea.”
“Yes, please,” I replied.
I had never been able to get used to the strangest phenomenon amongst the British. No matter what the occasion, happy or sad, frightening or truly wonderful, tea was always served to a grateful population.
Waiting for it to arrive, my concern grew. I did not know where they had taken Roderick and whether he was okay under the circumstances. I took slow deep breaths in order not to panic and, with manners, asked of his location.
“May I enquire on the whereabouts of my associate?” I asked tentatively.
“You may enquire but that does not mean I will give you an answer.”
Detective Edwards was far from agreeable, politeness sadly lacking as he ushered the constable to see why the tea was taking so long to arrive. I also noticed he unconsciously bit his lip with alarming regularity.
“It is a very late hour. We have no choice but to hold you in custody at the station until your solicitor arrives in the morning.”
A holding cell was what he intended for me, although he skittered around the inevitable it was obvious. He planned to lock me up. The tea arrived and I did my best to drink it slowly.
“Come along, Ortiz, how long does it take for one to drink a small cup of tea?”
“I have a stomach that is delicate, therefore, I have to take care with ingesting hot liquids.”
His English politeness prevented him for chastising my ‘disorder’, tea was decidedly sacred. Every moment I lingered in the interview room was a moment less spent locked up. Unfortunately, time had run out and, with the final slow sip of tea, I lost my bargaining power as I was unceremoniously marched to a dreaded cell. With the door firmly bolted behind me, I was left to wait anxiously for my solicitor to arrive. Hour after hour I could do little else but stare at the door willing Neville to appear. I had lost the notion of time, all of my belongings taken way leaving me powerless. I surmised it was soon to be light as I peered out of a small barred window.
I was entombed in a room no bigger than a coffin. Damp walls made of concrete, a perilously low ceiling and a small burning candle- my punishment. “God, please forgive me. I will never sell illegal opium again, nor steal documents if you help me to get out of here unscathed. While on the subject, please protect Roderick, he is not always as strong as I.” I prayed hard as I chastised myself and tried without success to ignore the stench.
After what seemed an eternity, the door opened. “Emmanuel Ortiz, your solicitor is here.”
I had never been more delighted to see Neville, an old Etonian with a snobbish attitude who fastidiously set up the business. He had not a clue of my real identity, but asked on more than one occasion why Roderick’s appearance was so strange. I assured him of fictitious aliments in the hope to appease and now, in the early morning light, he arrived, looking most perplexed.
“What have you done, Emmanuel, to find yourself in such a predicament? These are serious accusations. They are also suspicious of your reason to be in Whitechapel. Damn irresponsible old chap, particularly when you know they are trying to catch a killer.”
“They have me all wrong, I never hid my intention. It is imperative you seek out Chief Inspector Donald Swanson. He will verify that we had a meeting concerning my desire to assist in their enquiries. I know nothing of stolen files and my opium sales are legitimate.”
“The files have yet to be recovered, so they are only going on hearsay. Unless you make a confession, they cannot charge you for theft.”
“What of the trumped up charge of opium dealing?”
“They caught a young man who had opium on his person. He spoke of you being the main source of supply. Again, it’s his word against yours.”
“So if we can summon the Chief Inspector then they will know I am not lurking in the streets of Whitechapel hoping to murder a prostitute, I am assisting them.”
“I will do my
best to contact this Swanson fellow, but it may be difficult. Do you think you can solidly confirm your whereabouts for all of the dates of each murder? We must eliminate you from the line of enquiry.”
Neville was an extremely costly, and much sought after solicitor, amongst London’s high society. Marianne, amongst others, was convinced the man was a genius in law. Up until this moment, I never expected to test his criminal expertise. “Where is Roderick? Do you know, have you spoken with him?” I voiced my concern.
“He is being held at Charing Cross Police Station. I will go next to him, but first I must work to have you released without charge.”
My brain matter began to tick; who was the culprit that had spoken out and named me in the process? What of Albert? Had the fool gotten into a drunken state and spoken carelessly to the wrong person? They must have searched my home and the office and found nothing. So where on earth did Roderick hide the files? It had to have been Copper who was arrested. Perhaps he too had spoken out of turn to the wrong people? Clearly, I was in trouble and the only person who would be able to get me out of it was Neville. Without his expert help I would be sunk.
They brought me some breakfast of tea, a bowl of watery porridge and a piece of thin dry bread. I only managed to drink the cold tea while I anticipated a final interview to tie up loose ends. Neville was right, they had nothing substantial. I was confident that soon I would be on my way back to the lodgings via the telegraph office to make contact with Roderick.
Detective Edwards was waiting for me in the interview room and Neville managed to supply good news. Chief Inspector Swanson had sent word to confirm I had indeed expressed an interest in ‘playing private detective’, a comment I chose to ignore, and he accepted my credentials from America. Leaving me to my own devices in hope I would supply leads and further evidence. Neville encouraged me to supply names of employees and friends that had seen, or been with me, on the nights the murders took place. But that still left the burning issue of the opium, one I needed to battle out as I prayed Roderick did not bow under pressure and confess all. Not knowing what he said, or not said, left my nerves frayed and my head banging.