Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (20 page)

The owner of the house, a Mrs. Bridges, let me in and informed me her husband had sent for the doctor only hours before. He had been and gone. Albert was suffering a bout of influenza and confined to bed rest.

“His temperature has broken, so we can be much relieved,”’ I was told, “Perhaps a visit from a friend will brighten his mood.”

Albert appeared none too perky, although he was sitting upright in bed with blankets around him. He had a slight shiver and as I expected,
not
pleased to see me.

“You. What do you want?”

“I thought I’d pay you a visit after I received the news that you were unwell.”

“Liar, you are only here to see if I saved my skin by accusing you. I see you saved yours, as you’re a free man. Let me guess, you have a costly solicitor, who could even get you off a murder charge.”

“I see Albert you still have your own bed and are not sleeping on a straw mattress in a concrete cell. That makes us both equal in the great dodge from prison.”

He was angry in spite of his condition that weakened him; so angry he was spitting fire.

“I have almost lost my job because of the accusations. My editor has told me that I am hanging by a thin thread and when I return to work I must have an exemplary record. Damn you and damn Jack!”

“I never heard you damning me when I lined your pockets with enough money to keep you in ale and cigars for a year or more. What exactly happened that has made you so angered with me?” I retorted.

“I paid a rookie detective at the Yard who I had met a while back. He was worried about debts from gambling, a weak and perfect choice to steal the files. I didn’t expect the fool to be caught when, quite drunk in an inn near Chelsea, he opened his mouth to the brother of a copper.”

What were the odds of such a coincidence? Of all the people the detective could have confided in, he chose a policeman’s brother.

“Admit to me, Emmanuel, that
you
thought it was me who had opened my mouth whilst under the influence?”

He was right, but I refrained from the truth to spare his feelings, not a pleasant act, to kick a man when he is down and demanding honesty.

“Of course not, my good chap. Why would I think such a thing?”

“Because you would be an utter fool not to think it!”

“So this is your anger: that I would immediately jump to the wrong conclusion?”

“No, it is, in spite of the perks of knowing you, I seriously regret this liaison ever happened. It will be best for us to part company and, I will not miss the bog infested vagabond!”

I was devastated. Albert’s thoughts of me had turned sour. I underestimated his loyalty, assuming my money kept him contented and prepared to take a risk-obviously not.

His attitude and upset did nothing to reduce my stubborn determination to hunt down Jack at any cost regardless of it being an arduous problem-ridden process.

Patience? I had plenty, for my time was not running out. If he was the immortal Ratibor I could be hunting him well into the next century, and
beyond.

With a heavy heart, I decided to respect Albert’s wishes and leave. But not before he made a last damning comment through his coughs and sniffs.

“I’ve always doubted your immortality, often supposing you spun me a yarn. If you really are Judas, then God would have struck you down long ago!” said he. I slammed the door on my way out.

The depressive streets of Whitechapel did little to lighten my somber mood as I wandered, alone and aimless. So what if a foolish, drunken newspaper man did not believe my true identity? Was it that important to me that he did? I tried hard to dismiss the whole episode; instead I focused on a good intention, to call on Mary. It would take my mind off recent events and give me a distraction, if I could locate her lodgings. The streets were filled with people attending to the day’s duties with little brightness in their expressions. The cold wind no match for those with inadequate clothing. Barrow boys who worked the many east-end markets, not a day older than thirteen, were practically barefoot, such was the condition of their footwear. In spite of the freezing temperature they wore no coats over thin, worn out clothing and their faces were covered in dirt. “Watcha back, mister!” they shouted, pushing large wheeled barrows stocked with vegetables or other goods through badly maintained cobbled streets. Child labor; ignored and dismissed from the conscience of those who had the power and abilities for reform.

It was afternoon when I finally found Mary’s residence, little more than a rundown ground floor room of a house, a structure that needed to be demolished, such was the severity of decay. Holding my nose to protect myself from the vile smell of rotting rubbish, I knocked two times loudly on the door. “Mary, it is Emmanuel. Are you in there?” I called.

The door opened and there she stood, “Yer woke me up, get in.”

I was shuffled unceremoniously into a space barely the size of Cook’s storeroom, her clothes strewn everywhere. It smelt of mildew and the yellowing strip of net curtain on the window gave no protection from the elements or privacy. Mary could not ignore my expression of surprise.

“This is the best I can do under such bloody awful circumstances. Try not to judge me to ‘arshly”

“Never would I judge you. I know you are a victim of circumstances.”

Her long hair was loose and unkempt and she did little to cover her under slip. “I’ve only just got up. It was an ‘ard night last night, but I made good money. Enough to pay me overdue rent. The bleeding landlord’s been knocking on me door all week for it. Why are you ‘ere, Emmanuel, I weren’t expecting yer?”

“To see if you are well, that is my only intention.”

“Ahh, you’re so sweet you are, but why you wanna worry about me? I do alright, find a way to survive. Oh yeah, I saw that bloke last night, the one yer looking for. I saw ‘im walking past The Ten Bells, in a real ‘urry he was, didn’t stop for nuthin.”

This was what I wanted so desperately to hear, that he had
not
gone into hiding since he caught sight of me, his presence still in Whitechapel. Was he taking his time as he stalked his next prey? There had yet to be another victim, a good sign, but then could I allow complacency believing he had gone to ground, never to resurface again?

“Please, Mary, stay off the streets. With the killer yet to be apprehended, it makes your situation perilous.”

“Yer know what they say, me old mate, if yer time’s up, it’s up. I can’t sit around on me backside. I ‘ave to work to bring in the coffers, I ain’t going to the workhouse for no one!”

I was tempted to hand over money in order to stop her working the streets. Knowing the moment I departed she would dress and, make her way to the nearest ale house did not deter me in the least. I lived in hope she would do the sensible thing.

“Mary. I am giving you three pounds to help you with your rent and I implore you,
please,
do not drink it away.”

“As if I would…” She replied coyly. I capitulated to her appealing blue eyes, so hard to ignore.

“I can return the favor if yer want?” she continued, coming closer, “it’ll be something you’ll enjoy cause I’m right good at it!”

I gently moved her back, creating a safe distance. She took no offence, preferring to smile, blow me a kiss and throw me a compliment. “You’re my little darling yer are, honest.”

Having given me her utmost reassurance she would be cautious, I left not knowing how to spend the remaining day. To return to my depressing lodgings did not appeal, nor was sitting in a rough, unpleasant ale house. I was at a loss until dark and feeling low-spirited as I bade Mary a fond farewell

To distract myself, I made my way to Mile End, a short distance away where I would enjoy the benefit of the Queens Hall for some hours. I could read in the library, swim in the pool or stroll in the lovely winter gardens.
Anything t
o break up the monotony of waiting for night to fall. It was my first sight of the opulence of Queen Victoria’s palace for the people, standing regal in the midst of such extreme poverty. I amused myself for hours reading Hard Times by Charles Dickens. Most befitting when I considered where I was, in a time period of the industrial revolution evoking much change. By my own admission I often ignored newspaper reports of social and economic pressures being felt up and down the country. Mr. Dickens had written a work of fiction, but it was plain to see he had gathered inspiration from fact.

The early evening sky was closing in as I left the tranquility of the library. It was time to dine somewhere decent, good food to line my empty stomach while I planned my route for the night. On my way out of the library, a calendar reminded me it was the eighth of November. Soon it would be Christmas. For most it was a joyous day of goodwill and celebration, for me it was a time I preferred to forget.

Alone and somber, I came across a suitable eatery on the Mile End Road where I struggled to finish a mutton stew with dumplings. From the first mouthful I knew I had made a mistake. The meat was tough and dry, the dumplings heavy. Dissatisfied, I paid leaving the meal half eaten.

“Oy mister, do yer ‘ave a penny for me?” a young boy begged, obstructing my way forward.

“No, go away!” I replied.

I was in no mood for beggars as I made my way back to Whitechapel in hope of coming face to face with Jack. I told myself I had immense patience, but truth be known, it was slowly wearing thin. I missed the comforts of home and the security of my surroundings. Thoughts turned to Marianne and to whether her engagement to the Platt fellow was still on the cards. I would find out soon enough…

The narrow streets begun to fill with prostitutes and men more interested in filling themselves full of ale than a sexual encounter. Ragamuffin children, mostly boys, were priming themselves for a good night’s pick pocketing and the odd constable was beginning his nightly beat. It was cold and clear with no hint of rain but, the fog and the stench of sewage could not be stifled. Obnoxious and rancid, it seemed the locals had become accustomed to the slops. An east-end slang word for human excrement thrown from housewives buckets into the gutters. I had not become accustomed to the invasion on my nostrils and on this night I needed to fight the nausea threatening to overwhelm me. Regretfully, adding to my misery the stodgy stew was regurgitating. I breathed slowly with each and every step; being sick in public not an idea to relish.

I looked for Mary in her usual places, but she was nowhere to be seen. I went to the brothel house to be told she was not working there that evening. I scoured the faces of men who appeared to be loitering, hoping for a sign of recognition, a long overcoat, trilby hat and short stature. The search proved fruitless and did nothing to improve my ever increasing sour mood.
I have made a serious mistake, I do not belong here,
I chastised myself, convinced I should pack up and go home. Then, out of the blue, I caught sight of her embroiled in a heated disagreement outside an ale house. Consumed with gin, she was loud and full of bravado.

“I’ll ‘ave yer for this I swear I will, yer barstard!” She screamed at a chap who could barely stand.

“Mary, what is going on here, are you all right?” asked I, hoping my intervention would not be taken as a threat.

“Nah, I’m far from all right, ’e owes me money, the lowlife!”

The man was large in stature, his cap slung low over his red rimmed eyes. He grinned menacingly at Mary, unafraid to provoke a confrontation with me at the same time.

“Why don’t you mind yer own bloody business, mate. This ‘ere is between Mary and me. I dunno who this toff is, Mary, yer gonna tell me why ‘es ‘ere?”

“Emmanuel’s a good mate an’ a better bloke than you’ll ever be,” she replied. This was a boyfriend of Mary’s, not a client. Someone she had been living with who, according to her sorry tale, drunk all her money away and put her behind with the rent.

“I consider Mary to be my business and if you are an honorable man, you will pay what you owe and walk away,” I demanded.

The fracas attracted a small crowd eager for an escalation. A woman claiming to be a mutual friend pushed her way forward in Mary’s defense. “Give ‘er what’s owed. I know yer beat ‘er up good, thrown ale in ‘er face… blacked ‘er eye, I saw ‘yer doing it barstard!”

“Yeah, Daisy saw yer whack me, she did an’ all,” said a tearful Mary.

The moment I heard he had harmed her, the rage began to build inside, exploding when I grabbed him tight around the neck. Paying no attention to his larger size I pushed him hard against the wall.

“A real man never lays a hand on a woman. You are nothing but a lowly coward, a sorry excuse for a human being!” said I.

I could hear him choking as he desperately tried to free my hands, but I had locked on and was unable to let go. My anger had taken control and I was at an advantage. He had been weakened by alcohol. Meanwhile Mary became hysterical.

“Emmanuel, for God’s sake, let go of ‘im, ’e ain’t worth the bloody gallows!” she begged.

I could not let go as past images flashed before me of men I witnessed beating women to the point of death, then celebrating with friends for a job well done. Men who enjoyed choking the life out of women who dared to go against their control and paid with their lives. I was far from exoneration and confess to my behavior being shady and imperfect, but a woman beater I was not.

“How much does he owe you, Mary?” I asked, maintaining my controlled grip.

“It’s nine bob, gives or takes a penny or two.”

“Then this debt must be paid, in full” I replied.

Much to Mary’s relief I freed him, whereupon he fell to the ground, coughing and struggling to breath. The small group of onlookers did nothing but stare with curiosity at the crumpled heap.

“Empty your pockets,” I demanded.

Frantically, he scrambled in his jacket to pull out what monies he possessed. I stood over him ordering him repeatedly to pass to me what he had on his person. With great reluctance he handed over three shillings and tuppence and I gave my final warning.

“There will be no drinking for you this night. Make your way home now and remember that your debt is still not fully paid. If you decide to lay one more hand on Mary,
you
will feel my wrath.”