Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (14 page)

“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.”

“Is ‘e a mute as well? He says nowt!”

“I’m not a mute, I speak very well to those I have interest in speaking to. I thank you to be careful
not
to insult me.”

“Oh, no, a bloody Irishman. God ’elp us if ’e can’t find ’is Guinness.”

Roderick did not react; he knew how important it was to gather information. With strength of character, he retained his composure against the rudeness and slander, allowing me to continue. Reginald Beavers did not realize how fortunate he had been not to receive a black eye or two.
Very fortunate.

“What can you tell me of Elizabeth?” I enquired.

“She were cut up good she was, throat slashed from ear to ear, nearly severed ‘er ‘ead, the bastard. ’Left ‘er there to die slowly with all the blood drained out of ‘er body. I’d seen Liz earlier in the night. She’d ‘ad trouble with ’er man, ’e knocked ’er about good, you know.”

“Did she ever speak with you about her gentlemen friends?”

“The punters you mean. Yeah there was one, or two I told the coppers about. The butcher who wanted to turn ‘er into a decent woman, ‘e was well smitten. Then there was the foreign bloke, always giving her extra, a few coppers more ‘ere and there. I saw ‘im with ‘er once, a short man dressed poncy.”

The northern dialect was somewhat difficult to comprehend. Roderick seemed to have a better understanding, but said nothing, preferring to stay detached from what he rightly saw as an arrogant excuse for a mortal.

“When you say poncy, you mean he didn’t look like he belonged round here?” I asked.

“Oh, aye, there were nothing east-end about the man, ‘e were a better class of person, a gent like you. Liz told me ‘e’d given ‘er a gift, a necklace but she’d sold it for rent.”

“Do you recall what he wore?” I replied, careful not to put words into his mouth.

“A dark overcoat and an ‘at that covered his face, a trilby ‘at it were. The day I saw ‘im was warm but there ‘e were all covered up like ’e was frozen an’ I’ve seen ‘im since I ’ave. All over the place. She were a good lassie, was Elizabeth, aye… a good lassie.”

“Can you please tell me where you have seen him?” My curiosity heightened.

“That’ll cost yer.”

I could not believe I was being asked for payment in return for information that may help to catch the killer of a woman he was acquainted with, supposedly a friend. I disliked the man intensely, he was obnoxious. But, the ball was in his court-if I refused I would gain no further knowledge. “How much?” I asked.

“Five bob and I’ll take yer to ‘is stomping grounds.”

“There you are.” Reluctantly, I handed him the exorbitant sum of five shillings. “Please do not assume to take me only to one street and walk away. I wish to become well acquainted with his route.”

We followed Reginald to Berner Street, where he proceeded to guide us through a maze of smaller streets leading to alleyways, tracing the route of our possible suspect.

“The last time I saw the fella were two nights ago, down past the workhouse. There’s a lassie in there called Mary Anne Monk, right stuck up ‘er nose she is with airs graces she don’t ‘ave. But she knows the fella with the overcoat. I’ve seen ‘em together walking down the street arm in arm.”

“How do we speak with Mary Anne? We can’t just walk into a workhouse without reason.” Roderick remarked, but he forgot one vital thing. That I, being an employer of domestic staff, could enter the workhouse on the premise of seeking out a simple housemaid. It was not uncommon within these places for some employers to search for an inmate who wished to gain domestic employment. They would not find me at all strange, instead, seeing me as a member of the new breed of more liberal, less snobbish employers. The workhouse was a large, drab, depressingly grey building, its windows small and grimy. One door, the only door, manned by a porter, for inmates and visitors alike, was foreboding.

“I am looking for a housemaid for my residence in Belgravia,” I said with confidence. “I had been given a recommendation for a Mary Anne Monk that I believe to be residing here.”

The porter was a thin, wiry looking man, his demeanor that of someone who disliked his position intensely. He proceeded to look us over cautiously, checking to see if we were genuine callers. Eyeing all of us with great suspicion.

“Does it take three of yer to speak to some woman?” he replied in a voice of clear displeasure.

“This gentleman, Reginald Belvers, is our guide in Whitechapel and Roderick Cooley is my business partner.”

“I’ll let yer all in, but it seems a bit suspicious to me. I ‘ope you’re not up to no good!”

“Of course not, my dear man. I am genuinely in need of a good housemaid. That is the sole purpose of my visit,” I replied with good intentions as I slipped three shillings in his hand. There was no resistance to the bribe, we passed freely into the courtyard, with instructions of which direction to take inside the building. The odious smell overpowered my nostrils at once, a mixture of foul cooking and borax, a strong cleaning fluid. The impact on Roderick was worrisome. His eyes underneath his glasses began to water, and his skin paled and blotched.

“Roderick, are you feeling alright?” I asked, concerned with the toxic fumes.

“It’s best if I wait for you outside,” he replied in a hushed voice. “I am having a reaction to the chemicals and I don’t want to alert Reginald, or anyone else here, that something’s not quite right with me.”

I explained Roderick had taken his leave due to stomach pains from lunch. He accepted my lie without question and it appeared, somewhat relieved. I was aware he didn’t feel comfortable in Roderick’s presence, like so many others. Within moments of asking a woman where we could find Mary, she pointed to a tall, thin woman in a dirty white apron, her hair tangled and full with grease. Reginald beckoned her over, but she approached with caution and a look of mistrust.

“I’m Mary. What do yer want with me?”

“My name is Emmanuel Ortiz and I understand you are acquainted with a short gentleman who frequents the area. He is commonly seen in a long dark overcoat, perhaps foreign?”

“Who’s asking and I don’t see what business is it of yours. It’s private, that is.”

“Please, Mary, it is of the utmost importance. I fear this gentlemen is not who he seems and could be dangerous,” I pleaded with great urgency.

“I ain’t ’ad no problem with ‘im, ’e pays well. The last time ’e gave me a shilling. Most of ‘em only gives me a copper or two. Right generous ’e is, a lovely chap ‘an I’m saving, you see, so I can get out of ‘ere and find me own lodgings.”

“How much do I have to give you for more information?” I asked tentatively.

“Now we’re talking mate, two bob, that’ll do.”’

I passed her money that she took with much delight, hiding it away on her person. In some ways it was a beneficial payment. I would be contributing to a fund that hopefully would bring change and guide her away from the streets into morally suitable employment. In spite of my past, I did
still r
etain a conscience.

“’Ee calls ’imself the Duke. Of course, ’e ain’t any royalty, ‘an he speaks with a foreign accent. ’Ee’s got money and wears a fancy ring, real big stone in it. It makes me laugh that ‘e’s always covered up with that long coat. Strange as well, we always ‘ave to do it in an alley, no going to a room or nuthin’. Even if it’s chucking down with bloody rain.”

“When are you meeting him again?”

“I dunno, ‘e don’t plan nuthin’, if I’m out there and ‘e’s there, then we do it.”

“I fear you are in grave danger, Mary.”

She laughed loudly, as if my suggestion was nothing more than a mere trifle of words. I estimated Mary felt herself to be invincible and the recent murders had somehow disconnected in her mind. She informed me how, for a sexual favor here and there with the porters, she avoided work house rules and curfews. Unconcerned with confidentiality, she bragged openly about leaving late at night and returning at dawn, without recrimination, on a regular basis.

“I’m meeting with Bert later, ‘e’s from the docks, one of me regulars. After that I’ll be in and around Bucks Row from ten o’clock.”

Could that have been a signal for me to make my way to the area in the hope of catching site of the so called Duke? I thanked Reginald, leaving him to converse with Mary in private and made my way out passing by the porter. I could not help but look at him in a wiry way; he was, after all, being favored and no better than the ‘procurers and controllers’ of prostitutes.
What
a great relief to be away from such a place and although I had seen very little, it left nothing to the imagination. A workhouse would be a last desperate stop, the choice between life and death. I felt blessed. There but for the grace of God…

Roderick had waited with patience outside the door, but the cold air was not improving his condition. His skin was blotched and his mood irritable.

“We shall make our way to the warmth of the Tavern, where I hope Albert is waiting,” I reassured him. He followed, both of us chilled to the bone as I searched for a carriage. Fortunately, it was not too long a wait for a cab. Once inside it’s cover, I attempted to lighten the situation.