Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (7 page)

“That when Judas, his betrayer, saw that Jesus was condemned, he changed his mind and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, saying, ‘I have sinned by betraying innocent blood.’ They answered, ‘What is that to us see to it yourself.’ And throwing down the pieces of silver into the temple, Judas departed, and went and hanged himself. Matthew twenty seven, verse three to five.”

“But what if the bible is wrong and Judas Iscariot did not hang himself, then what?” I replied, determined to release my tension.

“The devil was in the heart of Judas. He forced him to hang, to trap his soul in eternal damnation.”

“But what if he did not die, instead becoming doomed to wander for all eternity?”

The man fell silent as did the group, He was short in stature, with glasses perched on the end of his nose and a slight twitch in his left eye. Highly strung, perhaps?

“Judas Iscariot was a thief and a disciple of the devil, stealing any monies that came his way until he hung himself with great remorse for his hideous crime against Jesus, his closest friend.”

“What if he was standing right in front of you at this given moment? What, kind sir, would you have to say to him?”

“That he would be walking with Satan and shunned by God.
A heathen!
”

This seemed to be the consensus of opinion wherever I ventured. The majority of people, who followed the Bible and the teachings of Jesus, perceived me as a devil’s disciple: greedy, without compassion, a betrayer, a swindler and a thief to boot. They assumed I was once hanging by my own rope and now burning in the fires of hell, as did this well intentioned man who lived by the teachings of the bible. Who was I to judge what he believed or didn’t believe? It was but a select few who had taken the time to become acquainted with me, foregoing any judgments and accepting I was doing my utmost to change.

It was true I had once been a thief and a scoundrel with no compassion for others. Just like a prisoner behind bars for the rest of his days with plenty of time to think about his misdeeds, I too had time to think of my crime and its devastating consequences. My dear father, Simon Iscariot, taught me duty and honor was the most important attributes in a man, without them he would be lost. So, why did I take the wrong path and lead myself into temptation?

The debate continued, “I am sure Jesus is a pious, forgiving soul who would surely lead Judas into the kingdom of God where all would be forgiven upon atonement.” I decided to make my point as polite as possible.

“Then you are a trite naïve, good sir, and deluded. Judas Iscariot would never be accepted into the kingdom of our Lord God, he would be doomed forever in Satan’s lair!”

I wondered why I was drawn to such a place, far too frequently for my own good. Could it be a form of self flagellation, somewhere deep in my conscious was a driving need to be reminded of what I had done? Only I knew the answer.

It was fine weather indeed, a warm temperature for November. I loved the sunshine, no matter how small the dose. It appeared I was not the only one. Nannies strolled with their small charges; men rode their magnificent horses and Speakers Corner in full swing. I decided to relent on the discussion. There was no point in attempting to reason with the man and his bible. He had his mind set and I did not care to hear I would be doomed forever, even if a grain of truth were to be found in such a prolific statement.

“Douglas, next stop the office.” I climbed into my carriage, a little unnerved by the experience and feeling quite melancholy. But my spirits rose when the carriage entered fashionable Bond Street. This was where I secured a chamber of offices at a good rent. Considering the high prices, it was a find. The street housed some of London’s most sought after shops. Ladies and gentlemen’s clothing of the highest standard, their windows sparkling clean, with the finest quality mannequins, mingled with England’s most exclusive milliners and art galleries. It was a pleasant sight to watch the ladies as they strolled by in the latest fashions, the rich and privileged of the capital showing off for all and sundry. It was a marked contrast to the starving poor who languished just a few miles east of the city.

Upon opening the door to the office, the division between rich and poor suddenly became unnatural and dreadfully unjust, not something I previously paid great attention to. I put it down to the constant newspaper stories of Whitechapel having an influence. Roderick was deeply ensconced in the ledger, meticulously writing in the monthly incomings and outgoings, when I disturbed him.

“I am surprised to see you make an appearance, rare indeed,” said he. “Should I be alarmed at your presence?”

“No, not all. I’m merely passing by and thought I would update you on my progress. How is business? Prospering?”

“It’s going great guns. England is wanting foreign imports more than ever before and the office boy, Malcolm, is working out very well. But, Manny, it saddens me that you pay him such a pitiful wage. The poor lad struggles to feed his family on account of his father passing away.”

“Albert is assisting me to obtain files from Scotland Yard. I am waiting for his response. I
knew
he could be bought.”

“Did you hear what I just said? Malcolm
must
be paid more for the work he does.”

Yes, I had heard, but residues of greed forced me to change such a delicate topic as an increase in wages.

“I intend to make progress with this Ripper chap, there will be no more of my lethargy or indifference.”

“Correct me if I am wrong, you have asked that drunken idiot Albert to steal files from Scotland Yard? Have you gone insane? What if the man is caught? Do you not think he will want to save his own skin first and damn yours?”

“What’s the worst that can occur? I will state categorically that I know nothing of the matter and accuse him of slandering my good name for his own means.”

“Why are they so important? You never mentioned a need of them before.”

“The police are not very forthcoming in details to the newspapers. A lot of what you read is contradictory and misleading. I need to see witness and crime scene reports.”

“What is to become of the coin searching now you have transformed yourself into a sleuth? Will you next be hunting wild boars in Borneo? Chasing lustful women in Cuba?”

Roderick’s Irish bluntness stopped me dead in my tracks. He would say precisely what weighed on his mind, even when I did not want to hear and, always at the most inopportune moment for example, like now.

“I have recovered coins and not without personal sacrifice, you know that.”

“A meager amount for so many years of searching.”

“I have, to date, done my best and, besides, they are not easy to recover. Detective work is needed, plus I have been busy in other things,” said I, knowing it sounded a trite too arrogant.

Soon after I betrayed Jesus, I returned my payment to the chief priests, in the hope I would be exonerated in the eyes of God. I vowed, upon finding myself still alive after the hanging, to find every coin that had scattered to the four winds. I believed if I was successful in recovering all thirty pieces of silver, I would finally be able to grow old and die. Whether myth or fact, I was willing to try with little to lose either way. There had been many obstacles I was forced to endure as I traveled to far off lands too numerous to mention. Journeys that became nothing more than a wild goose chase, with nary a coin in sight. The hunt for Jack surely had to be less of a complication, considering his close proximity. “Will you consider changing your mind and accompanying me on my search? After all, two heads are better than one,” I asked.

His effort to reply was painful indeed, “That’s
something
I would need to think about.”

Roderick had much to bear- his own immortality and my exceedingly embarrassing behavior, irksome for someone who tended to have his feet firmly rooted on the ground.

I enjoyed the short moments I spent in the office. The view from the high Georgian windows onto the bustling street was agreeable, as was the fine oak carved desk made exactly to my taste by a skilled wood maker in Lancashire and delivered in perfect condition. I also acquired a beautiful rug imported from Persia. An impressionable sight for prospective clients, it showed we were doing well in business, an absolute prerequisite to a sound deal.

“I must be on my way, Roderick, but I would like you to come for dinner this evening. I have the pleasure of the company of Captain and Mrs. Braithwaite and I also expect Marianne’s attendance.” I had the misfortune to catch him wince, a sure sign he was reluctant to attend.

“It will be a benefit for the Captain to see our solidarity. He has put a lot of business our way and I would like it to remain that way,” I continued firmly.

Reluctantly, he agreed and, without word, went back to his meticulous, self taught accountancy.

There was little for me to do in such a state of limbo, no more than wait in anticipation for the files whilst I twiddled my thumbs. I would hasten to explain I had infinite patience
if
I set my mind to it, with the exception of a situation that occurred in the year 1555. I had made the long journey to Salon de Provence in southern France, to search for the author of a much talked about book, Les Prophecies. Word reached me he supposedly could see into the future. Like many I was desperate to have an audience with the infamous Michel de Nostredame. I traveled to him with determination, unsure he would give me an audience, but nonetheless resilient. It was simple, I wanted him to foresee
my
future. I languished long enough in lodgings in Salon de Provence, my patience torn to the limit, when I was informed by one of his associates he had been summoned with urgency to Catherine de Medici, Queen consort to King Henry II. She wanted him to make birth charts predictions for her children. My patience stretched beyond reason, as he was to be gone far too long for me to wait and I never again found the opportunity as the months passed. I did think to visit him again, but word came he died after predicting his own death the previous evening. I had, since that time, read all of his written prophecies, coming to greatly admire the man Nostredame, often wondering if he could have seen into my future what he would have made of it. It was not to be the first, nor last time, did I seek guidance, on occasions, seeing those who supposedly had the gift of foretelling the future. Many were to tell me only that I would have considerable wealth, marry and have one son. He will be a blessing and a chip off the old block! I am still waiting and, with each new century, I doubted what was told would ever come to pass.

looked forward to my evening meal of roast quails with apricots, a tasty throwback from olden times. Cook mastered the ancient recipe to perfection. Even though Roderick was not amused at having to daintily cut into the small bird, he always refrained from comment so as not to offend Cook, whom, in spite of her terseness, he held in high regard. This evening was to be no exception. Upon hearing the menu he only smiled.

“I am hopefully expecting Miss Marianne this evening,” I explained to Edward. “Please make sure there are two bottles of Krug on ice.”