Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (6 page)

“I wish to express my immense gratitude for the guided tour, Constable Fletcher. I urge you to take care and best of luck for the future.”

“That’s a funny thing to say. Like I’m gonna lose me job or something bad’s gonna ‘appen?”

“Please excuse me, I see in hindsight it was an inappropriate comment to make.”

When he was gone, I thought about my remark and concluded I was, in all intents and purposes, talking about myself. Judas Iscariot wishing himself luck and care in an unknown elongated future. How pitiful I must appear to those who knew the truth. At times I confessed to feeling out of place in such a stiff, repressed society, even though I enjoyed the trappings. The only appropriate thing for me to do to rectify the situation was to drown my sorrows with good ale and, hope Albert would make an appearance by midday. The Inn was not as full as I had expected, making it pleasant to settle in a cozy corner with a half pint of good brew and a plate of freshly caught whitebait. I adored the small tasty fish netted daily in the River Thames, dipped in flour and deep fried.
I could get used to this,
being a gentleman of leisure who did very little except indulge. In part I had done just that, but my lingering thoughts of not to have a moment’s regret for being here was concluded by my reason for being in the Inn. I had a very important request for Alfred and, after consuming two halves of ale, I prepared to win him over with a hearty lunch, plenty of ale and a cigar of his choice.

As my luck would have it, less than three quarters of an hour later, he arrived looking quite dapper. “Albert, your new hat does you justice,” I casually remarked.

“It cost three days of my wage, but I needed it. Have you eaten?” He was sharp enough to notice my empty plate.

“It was a small entrée, a portion of whitebait. Shall we order some lunch?”

“I thought you would never ask!”

I met Albert through a mutual contact soon after I purchased the house in Belgravia. Having sold a property in Regents Park, I was short a footman and needed to place advertisements in The Times. As a way to make extra money, Albert, for a small percentage paid by the newspaper, was the person who sold print space. Our initial contact five years previously was interesting; I found his immaturity extremely annoying, yet his ambition to be more than a salesman, admirable.

For all intents and purposes he had, without formal training, become a newspaper man. Over the years he developed quite a nasty habit. Pushing me for snippets of information on people I was acquainted with. To appease him, I would feed useless pieces of information leading nowhere, but he never gave up trying to dish the dirt on those of stature. When I mentioned my interested in the Ripper case, he was filled with suspicion. I was certain he saw me as yet another curiosity seeking do gooder and I was at a loss to tell him the truth after such a long period of knowing each other. It took a large ingestion of alcohol to confess my true identity that at first he perceived only as a joke.

Albert was not always in good health. He smoked too much and drank far too regularly, seemingly prone to coughs and colds by each winter. In spite of his idiosyncrasies, he was a gem of information who was about to discover how one good turn deserves another.

“The game pie with mashed potatoes and gravy looks good,” said he.

Determined, I was happy to oblige his every need, “Order what ever takes your fancy, I am feeling generous today. Game pie it shall be!” I continued, “I will take something lighter, a pork sausage and potatoes will suffice.”

My metabolism had improved over the centuries, becoming more resilient with time. If I dared to over indulge, there were consequences, mainly nausea and headaches.

“I need you to obtain copies of the files from Scotland Yard. The Chief Inspector has denied me access,” I said directly.

“You jest! How on earth do you expect me to gain entry into an office and, steal files under the nose of coppers?”

“Because you know many people, not all fine upstanding citizens. A little dubious, perhaps a tad shady in character. A policeman who needs a fine bonus for his family, for example?”

“You mean a bent copper? I have to scout around, it’s a mighty tall order with no guarantee.”

“If the price is agreeable everyone can be bought, Albert. Time is pressing now, so I need to have the copies quickly and there
will
be a bonus for you. A finder’s fee. Shall we say two hundred pounds?”

His face was alight with anticipation for what I considered a generous sum, enough to pay for his enjoyments and indulgences for quite some time. That included Miss Nancy Leigh from Pimlico. He had taken a shine to her and, according to Albert, she possessed a bosom he wanted to hide in. To court her properly he needed more than a meager reporter’s wage. Two hundred pounds would enable him to get the ball into his romantic court. There was, it seemed no more hesitation, the money spoke volumes.

“Count me in. I will speak with someone at the local police station, a friend. When, exactly, do you need the files?”

“As soon as possible. The end of the week will do nicely.”

It was hard to ignore the trepidation in Albert’s face. I was unsure if he could deliver, perhaps biting off more than he could chew. He was right, it was a tall order, stealing from Scotland Yard. Pure insanity or genius?

“I’ll do my best and a good cigar will set me in the right frame of mind,” he replied.

If Albert was a book, he would be a simple read. Without complaint, I ordered a fine, fat cigar. It was the least I could do for someone who went so eagerly into the fray.

I left full of renewed vigor. Having the files in my possession would mean a better understanding of who I was tracking down. I was sure they were full of information not known to the public, even some strong leads? I would send an urgent telegram to Bernie just in case and summon Roderick to explain one can never have enough material. His approval of my underhandedness was not needed. I already surmised his view of stealing confidential police files would be one of horror and would urge me to return to America with him forthwith, lest I find myself locked up in chains. I would dig my heels in and firmly disagree. Jack and I would meet very soon in a dark street or alley, and he will know that in the face of God, he has met his match, even if I failed.

Upon my return, the house was alive with activity. The housemaid was busy cleaning. Edward took care of a payment for the food delivery and the chimney sweep was cleaning the fireplace in the dining room. All the furniture was carefully covered to protect from the soot. I made my way downstairs, a rare occurrence in a household of this nature, but I often visited Cook and her assistant, a sweet young girl called Peggy, rescued from the workhouse.

“Good afternoon, sir. I hope you had a fruitful morning,” said Cook. I always thought she imagined my world to be true and my intentions honorable and, after spending enough time in employ, she remained none the wiser.

“Busy in the office as always, and, Peggy, how are you, dear girl?”

She was shy to the point of being crippled whenever in my presence. Her life had been blighted by extreme poverty and misery, and it disabled her confidence. Peggy was put in the workhouse, along with her mother, at the age of twelve. Sadly, not long after they arrived, her mother died of the Consumption leaving her alone to fend for herself. She had no choice but to remain until Mr. Fitzgerald, who had contacts through an east-end charity, assisted her to find paid employment with me. Cook possessed a formidable character with a tyrannical hold over her kitchen. She was also guilty of successfully driving away countless assistants through the decades. For reasons unbeknown to the entire household she softened, gently taking Peggy under her wing as she learned the ropes. I was content to give the poor girl a room at the top of the house, with a clean bed and a small wage. The workhouse was no place for her wounded soul; she did not possess the hardness needed to survive. At fifteen years of age, she seemed grateful enough for the work, although she made little eye contact with me and rarely smiled.

“I’m very well, sir,” she replied in the quietest voice, her eyes lowered.

“That’s good to hear, Peggy. Can you please cut me a slice of that delicious pie? I did not have dessert with lunch.”

I couldn’t help but stare at her long wiry fingers, badly damaged by the harsh work she was forced to endure prior to coming here. Her fingernails were in the process of recovering, but her hands were aged and dry. She had been little more than a slave, as in ancient Rome when young girls were held by predators in captivity without mercy.

Peggy reminded me of Linka, a young slave girl I managed to free on a wager in the year 62 AD. She was beautiful and luck shined on her, when in her freedom, she met and married a young man of good standing. They went on to have four children and were deliriously happy until her untimely death at the age of thirty-four. I hoped one day Peggy would find the same security.

“There you are, sir, a piece of pie.” She handed me the plate, a napkin and a fork but alas, still no smile.

I took the pie upstairs to my desk, where I proceeded to prepare a telegram to Bernie. I was expecting Roderick later, as he usually stopped by on his way from the office. Unfortunately, he was impatient to return to Virginia, his discontent showing more with each passing day, something I selfishly chose to ignore. I was to be disappointed, neither Roderick nor Marianne made an appearance, even though it was her night off. I dined alone and continued to read a fascinating new book, The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. I had known real characters that were vastly different in behavior from one moment to the next. Sometimes so shocking to see the change, I would prefer to walk or run the other way. I asked myself if this could be Jack, seemingly an upstanding citizen by day, at night becoming a monster.

Edward came into the study, his tall frame slightly stooped and his hair peppered with grey as age slowly caught up with his mortal body. “Sir, will you be requiring anything else, before I retire? It appears Miss Marianne is not coming this night.”

“I am just fine, Edward. I will finish this chapter and retire to bed.”

“I bid you goodnight, sir.” He was the epitome of politeness and respect. But I knew little about him other than he came highly recommended from Cyril, who praised his many years spent with an upper class family in Grosvenor Square. Unfortunately, they fell on hard times and had to dismiss most of their staff. After many years of loyal service, my previous butler, George, went into retirement and moved to Devon to be with his aged sister. I did the honorable thing and purchased them a comfortable cottage to enjoy and see out their remaining years. His sister, Agnes, was a devout Christian and I am certain to this day George remained loyal to my secret.

When Edward into stepped his shoes, he was similar to George in many ways and devoted to the core. Yet, unlike George, it didn’t feel right to confide the truth. I often wondered what would happen to them all if I were to take my leave from England. Perhaps an honorable intention on my part would be to secure them another position in a fine household, rather than leave them in dire straits. It would be a charitable thing to do
and
it would ease my conscience.

The next morning produced little results. No one came and no letters or telegrams arrived. My impatience was bothersome, as I did not like or enjoy idleness. I remained resolute in my sense of urgency which resulted in calling for the carriage to take me forthwith to Roderick. I was intolerant to isolation; the centuries failing to diminish the yearning for company I would seek by whatever means necessary. This was one of the days I could not stand to be left alone.

My driver, Donald, was a likeable chap. He had a wife and children in Aldgate, but took a live-in position with me, sacrificing family for finances. I had found out from Edward that Donald’s youngest daughter had been poorly. Being in my employ meant he could pay for her treatment and keep a roof over the head of his family, no matter what the sacrifice.

Regardless of what Roderick thought, I
was
trying to put my house in order so to speak, helping others without reward, concerned for people’s welfare and still praying for redemption.

The further we rode the more irritated I became. I was used to my existence being somewhat filled with adventure and intrigue, this experience becoming somewhat tedious and mundane. I needed excitement, a rush and a thrill. I banged loudly on the carriage, forcing a surprised Donald to a sudden stop.

“Take a detour to Hyde Park, please, Donald.”

It would be good to release some pent up frustrations and Hyde Park was the perfect location to do such a thing in relative safety. I was hoping to catch at least one religious speaker at what was known as Speakers Corner, long ago the site of Tyburn gallows where many executions took place going as far back as 1196. The reason for it now being a place to speak out in public on any subject was due to the condemned man once being allowed his final words before the hangman’s noose.

It was no longer a hanging spot; instead it had turned into a hot bed of heated discussion and debate. It took a mere moment upon arrival in the park to find what I was looking for. A deeply religious man with a bible in his hand and a conviction of what he perceived as the absolute truth. “Jesus cometh, Jesus answered and said unto him except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of God. Jesus cometh, he will be reborn,” he shouted.

“Are you absolutely certain of that, good sir?” said I, loudly so all around could hear.

He was standing on a small wooden box so as to be seen by all, surrounded by a small group of six people, myself included. He did not look kindly in my direction.

“Jesus cometh. The end is nigh!” he proclaimed loudly.

“Are you certain my good man? Perhaps Jesus will never return and what, sir, do you make of Judas Iscariot?” He quickly turned the well-thumbed pages of his bible, determined to answer my question.