Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (25 page)

I gave the detective an honest account of the time I spent with Mary on her last evening and explained how I harbored a wish to assist her in having a new life. I also told of the description I had been given of Ratibor. There was no reaction; he continued to write everything down as if writing a daily journal.

“They are all sad cases, Mr. Ortiz. For each Mary there will be a dozen more and you can’t save them all, you know. Best advice I can give you right now is to go about your business and leave the detective work to the experts,” he stated in an arrogant tone.

Experts? So far they had failed to capture ‘Jack’ or police the streets of Whitechapel more thoroughly at night. Because of their egotistical exclusivity, deliberately keeping the newspapers at bay, they limited public knowledge and awareness. I refrained from bringing up Queen Victoria and her butchers. Instead, I dutifully signed my statement and was on my way, happy to wrap up my dealings with them for once and for all. I found ‘Jack’ when they failed to do so. I fought him and warned him to move on. They, on the other hand, remained at their desks, miffed and clueless. I wagered decades, or centuries from a now, a new breed of detectives would still be speculating. Who
was
Jack the Ripper?

“There is something very important that I have to do in Whitechapel,” I informed Roderick.

“Mother of God! Are you going back for more misery?”

“No, it is something extremely personal that I cannot dismiss.”

“If you were to ask me, Manny, I would say you are a glutton for punishment. What on earth is enticing you to return? The sooner you concentrate on other matters, the better.”

There was a definite irritation in his tone and manner; his eyes bore down as he pleaded for me to change my mind. I needed to allay his fears that were, in my mind, completely unfounded.

“I am taking a carriage to Whitechapel in the daylight. It is but an errand, nothing more, and I promise to return before dark.”

“Then I wish to come with you.”

“No, you must stay here. I
have
to be alone.”

He muttered something in Gaelic that I expected was a profanity. The only time he had power over me with words was when he spoke in his native tongue, mostly to anger and confuse. This time it had no effect, I was determined to be on my way, unhindered, to Whitechapel.

Through memory I walked in the direction of the shop where Mary had seen the red bonnet. I was unsure in the daylight, but with persistence, I found it. Under Victorian standards it was never appropriate for a man to enter female millinery but I was undeterred by formalities. Returning to the small shop on Whitechapel High Street served to recapture the sight of Mary’s face lighting up in awe of a bonnet she could only dream of owning. It brought a smile to my face.

As I entered the shop, an assistant approached with a startled look.

“Good afternoon, sir, what can I do for you?”

“I would like to purchase the red bonnet in the window, please madam,” I replied.

She dutifully retrieved the bonnet from the stand and, as she handed it to me for perusal, she seemed puzzled.

“I am concerned with the fitting, sir. Do you have a hat size for the lady in question?”

I denoted a French accent as she spoke, not a hint of cockney in her cultured tone.

“Alteration is not required, it will be fine as it is.”

“Are you sure? Perhaps you should bring the madam into the shop so we can make a proper fitting? This is one of the more expensive hats we have, surely she would like a perfect fit?”

“I will not be requiring a box. I wish to take it as it is,” I replied, dismissing her request.

“This is indeed a strange sale. The first time I have sold a hat without fitting or a hat box to keep it in!”

There was no right way to explain why I was taking the hat as it was. I paid, and clutching the hat tightly in my hand, returned to the carriage determined to see through what I planned to do.

“St Patrick’s cemetery, Leytonstone, please,” I requested.

I arrived to find, as with all of London, a thick winter frost covered the ground. It was not easy to find the mound of earth that was Mary’s grave. The cemetery was larger than I anticipated, but I persisted with an ice cold wind blowing hard. In spite of wearing gloves, my fingertips frozen, I eventually found the plot. With great sadness I read the obituary the day before in the newspaper dated November the nineteenth. It was a time before her body was released because of the autopsy. No one came forward to pay for the funeral, which resulted in her being buried in a pauper’s grave. A small wooden cross had been staked in the earth with her details roughly carved into it. The only testament she had ever existed.

My plan to dig a small hole with my hands and bury the hat had been thwarted by the frozen ground. I had no choice but to place it on top of the grave, in the vain hope it was not stolen.

“Here you are, Mary, the lovely red bonnet I promised to buy for you,” I told her.

With a heavy heart, I placed it gently on her grave.

“You will be the prettiest girl in heaven wearing that. The angels will be jealous.”

I bade her farewell and decided the least I could do was commission a proper headstone as an anonymous donor. With my time in Whitechapel over, it was imperative to return home and settle my affairs, but I was angry at seeing Mary lying cold in her grave, angry at my failure to save her.
Damn you, Ratibor, damn you to hell!
I called out into the silence of the cemetery.

In spite of my outrage, I had no regrets on meeting Mary, who had unknowingly taught me more than I had realized. In her own way, she had shown me that in spite of my immortality, I had to become the person I wanted to be, a better person and more readily accepting of my fate. I had made no judgments on her in the short time we spent together and prepared to defend myself against anyone who thought our liaison scandalous.

In the past, I could never imagine spending time with a woman of Mary’s standing in life, yet I cared nothing of a reaction as we walked arm in arm and sat together on a park bench. The only crime she committed was to be lost in morality, no different than millions of others, except
she
was honest about it. Mary had, in effect, become my shining light and a way forward into the future. She would now be safe in one of God’s many mansions, where there would be no death, only light and love. As for my adversary Ratibor, I wished him a painful and slow end at the hand of someone much stronger than he. For as long as I remained immortal, I would live in hope to never to cross his evil path again nor hear of another mutilation murder in Whitechapel. I left the depressingly cold cemetery with gratitude. I was safe and free to pursue my future with a more positive outlook, in spite of what I still saw as a failure on my part. I knew, like so many other challenges in the past, I would, regardless of consequence, move on, but Mary Jane Kelly would not be forgotten. Less than one hour after my return, I was pleasantly lightened by the charming sight of Marianne, who unexpectedly came to call, alone.

“My dearest, Emmanuel, it’s delightful to see you after such a while. You look devastatingly handsome, as always!”

“And you, my dear sweet girl, as beautiful as ever,” I replied, taking her hand and kissing it lightly.

As a true and patient gentleman, I listened to her tales of the theatre and of Robert. She had, at first sight, despised his family, wealthy landowners from Sussex. Marianne was prepared to overlook what she saw as a slight interference on their part concerning the wedding arrangements, but they made it quite clear they deplored her work in the theatre.

“Not good enough for their son. The man is almost thirty-two years old and still unmarried. They must be grateful in the least I have taken him on
and
have grown to love him a little more,” she told with great compassion.

Life had gone back to where I left it, but there had been a fundamental change. The reality and genuineness of Whitechapel had no place in the dishonest, moralistic, judgmental and double standard world of upper class Victorian society. At first I embraced it, enjoyed the frivolities and fine company of beautiful women. Now I abhorred the shallowness of a family who judged Marianne so harshly. How a wonderful human was seen as little more than a harlot disgusted me.

Her company was a breath of fresh air, and it was a relief to tell her where I had really been. When all was told, she dabbed at her tearful eyes with a delicate handkerchief.

“Horrible, simply and utterly horrible. The poor wretched girl. And to think you wanted to help her, but a few hours later she was dead. My goodness, Emmanuel, you could have been killed, chopped to pieces by that monster!”

“It was not to be so please stop thinking about it. I am okay.”

“I shall miss you terribly when I’m married.”

“I will miss you, too, but you have a wonderful man and a new life ahead of you.”

“I know I will, I adore him,” she replied.

It was comforting to know she had the chance of a happy future, one that would diminish the memory of what could have been between us. The last thing I wanted was Marianne to be miserable because of me.

Next on my list was a last attempt to reconcile with Albert. Assuming it would take more than a full lunch and a glass of ale!

I found him in the inn, sitting in his usual spot, restored to full health with a newspaper tucked under his arm and an ear open for gossip.

“Pardon me, can I buy you another?” It was a genuine and honest offer.

“Oh no, I thought I’d seen the last of you!”

My appearance had not gone down well, but I was determined to win him round with a multitude of appeasements. He was, after all, a newspaper man first and foremost and easily swayed.

“How does a profound apology sound? I am prepared to go down on my knees and beg your forgiveness if that is what it would take.”

“What, no bribes? Where are the enticements of a lunch with fine brandy with an all expenses paid passage to New York thrown in for dessert?”

“I want you to know,” I said, “that I did my best and failed.”

There was no need to explain fully to Albert what happened. He was inattentive anyway, preferring to behave in a standoffish manner that was to be no deterrent in my stubbornness to win him over.

I told him briefly about Ratibor and I thought the killings would stop as I was sure he was on the train to Paris as we spoke.

“Then it’s time you moved on as well. I still cannot believe I was manipulated by you to steal because of my own desperate needs. Your work is done here, yes? Then it’s time for you to return from whence you came. The creature comforts of Belgravia.”

The cold hearted way he treated me, considering he willingly entered into an agreement to procure the files, was confusing. He had been paid handsomely. What was there to complain about? But then again, in hindsight, what good had come from my dastardly deed? The files, now buried in a graveyard, proved to be a worthless risk that served little use. I had done it again, neither one of us fared well from my reckless dishonesty, and I lost a good friend.

“What do you want, Emmanuel, the last supper? Go ahead, order food and drink that we can sit together and consume. Oh, I know, when all is eaten you can give me the kiss of death, as you did Jesus.”

His scathing comment was the last straw. I left in a hurry, with another lesson sharply learned. I should stop buying people off for personal gain.

ith all that had happened, I made the decision sometime in the following year I would return to America, much to Roderick’s delight. I also gave consideration to my household and, with much effort, secured employment for all my staff in what I considered to be an excellent arrangement. Through the Captain, I found a newly appointed Member of Parliament, a Mr. Richard Smyth his wife and two children, to lease the house for four years on the guarantee they retained every member of staff. They desired the location and were prepared to wait until I was ready to leave. Roderick had been fortunate to secure a skilled manager with excellent references to run the business until I decided what to do with it. We both agreed to keep the rooms in Hyde Park for now, subleasing them on the shortest term, in case Roderick decided on a visit.