Reborn (29 page)

When she’s not conjuring tales about witches, demons, and other magical beings, she can be found leathered, and bound to the back of her husband’s Harley, touring her homeland of Nova Scotia, Canada.

Enter Lisa’s imagination where light ends and fantasy begins. But heed these warnings… it’s dark, it’s magical, you may experience tingles.

London 1888.

here was a time, long ago, when I hung myself with remorse. An act I considered justified in exchange for the betrayal of my good friend Jesus of Nazareth. My gain? Thirty pieces of silver and, my curse? To become immortal, forced to roam for eons of time while many learned scholars attempted to debunk what really happened to me. Rumors abounded through the centuries about my demise, some laughable, others close to the truth, whilst I continued to wander through centuries neither growing old nor dying. I had, with misfortune, met the sharp blades of knives, a bullet and various types of torture contraptions. None succeeded in killing me. Instead, after a quick recovery, I was restored.

But the curse of greed remained. With good faith, I attempted to shake my desire for money, and failed miserably as I amassed many fortunes in short spaces of time. Of course, I had the advantage of longevity in which to learn how to perfect the finer points. Each venture becoming more successful than the last. Short of blowing my own trumpet, I admit to being expert in many skills and, having the good fortune to prosper in England, my residence for over eighty years, I created many new business ventures, bought and sold many properties.

My friend, and fellow immortal, Roderick Cooley walked the earth on and off with me for seventeen hundred years, until settled on his fine plantation in Virginia. I began a campaign of letters and telegrams six months ago. I needed Roderick to come in as a partner on a lucrative business opportunity. Having sold my existing business for a tidy sum, I planned on expanding my wealth considerably.

My name, Judas Iscariot, is not used for my current residence; I much preferred the alias of Emmanuel Ortiz for appearances. It suited well; I had many pseudonyms, a master in all disguises with a penchant for excitement. In the midst of my business dealings I found another, far more sinister path I wished to take - my intrigue heightened after reading various newspaper reports.

My latest purchase was a splendid Regency home in the heart of London’s Belgravia. It afforded a true gentleman’s lifestyle with all the trappings my heart desired. Party invitations became a regular occurrence shortly after I acquired my new address, giving me the opportunity to mingle with London’s elite upper class society on a regular basis. My new import business flourished as England opened its doors to new tastes and delights from foreign lands. In came cotton, gold, diamonds, tea, spices, flax, and opium with abundance. I didn’t care to admit to my clandestine operations: to supply the opium dens of London alongside the respectful supplies to pharmaceutical companies who turn them into Laudanum.

We all have a secret or two and I had plenty. For example, who I
really
am and why I was fixated and enthralled with Jack the Ripper. News of his hideous crimes spread far and wide, to America and beyond. I wanted to meet the chap head-on and stop him. But the lure of lavishness and excess had overtaken and distracted me for such a long time I was unsure of my commitment.

A good example of one distraction would be the drawing room, a place for entertainment and my pride and joy. In olden days, privileged members of the French court of royalty would gather outside the King’s Levees waiting for him to make his first public appearance of the day. In Victorian times the Levees had become the drawing room and took on quite a different purpose. When entertaining, after a lavish dinner, the ladies made their way to the room for idle gossip, while we fellows stayed in the dining room to enjoy a fine cigar, conversation and a good Napoleon cognac. Later we would join the ladies, if I was fortunate to have Eliza Gardiner in attendance, after some gentle persuasion she would delight us with her wonderful piano recitals. Occasionally, I was given the opportunity to duet with her. It was such a pleasure, being musically inclined. Eliza possessed the voice of an angel and enjoyed singing my self-written sonnets, while I played my precious Stein piano. Our guests always loved the high level of entertainment and I loved Eliza, as a friend. Never once did I contemplate a liaison and betrayal of her husband Cyril, who I considered a fine fellow. Although I found her to be very attractive indeed, I remained a gentleman.

The chill of autumn reminded me the short summer had come to an end and the fire now needed to be drawn and lit.

“A telegram for you, Sir.” My trusted butler, Edward, brought the post along with my morning tea into the study. I always gave telegrams my complete attention.

‘The Leather Apron still at large in Whitechapel. Stop. Enough frivolity. Stop. Contact me at your earliest convenience A.L. Richard. Stop.”

Rumors ran rife in London that each murder may be connected. There was not a social circle left that did not have something to say. The various hoax letters purporting to be from Jack had started to circulate, but none led to the killer. Now, my good friend and news reporter, Albert, had thoughtfully sent me a telegram, using one of the nicknames given to the elusive Jack: The Leather Apron, on account of his habit of carving up victims in the most gruesome manner remained free as a bird.

Through my own omission, I could not help but be drawn to the brutal murders. Caught up in the moment, I desired to be the one to bring him to justice. I was not startled easily or unused to witnessing unspeakable horrors in the past. I often thought there could be no mortal that would succeed in catching the treacherous and elusive killer.

The self centered part of me yearned for a quieter, more reserved existence. Now I had become a proper English gentleman. There were millions in cash and investments placed in bank accounts throughout the world. If I desired, I could become a gentleman at leisure - indulging in anything my heart desired.

With great haste I penned a letter to Albert. I suggested we meet at The Old Bell Tavern on Fleet Street, a popular watering hole for newsmen to gather and gleam information. London was already ablaze with speculation. Each unsolved murder had printing presses running overtime and Albert was in the thick of it, holding a prestigious post at The Times.

I instructed Bert, my trusted footman, to deliver the letter forthwith. If I was going to assist in the capture of this heinous killer, time was of the essence. Though I had plenty, his victims did not. I preferred to keep myself busy, a distraction from the thoughts that constantly plagued me as I periodically found myself in reflection. The morning had hardly begun, when much to my delight Marianne paid an unexpected visit flinging the door wide open before Edward could do his formal introduction.

“My darling, good morning and what a fine day it is!” she loudly exclaimed.

“What do I owe for this unexpected visit?” Although slightly taken aback, it was a joy to see her. Nothing about the stunningly beautiful and vivacious twenty three year old actress surprised me.

“I had a hard night, three curtain calls and a divine party after at the director’s home in Chelsea. But I awoke early and
had
to come and see you. Have you heard the news?”

“It depends on what news you are referring to. Every day brings news.”

“Emmanuel, my love, are you in a cocoon? It’s Jack, he’s still at large and there are fears he will strike again!”’

“That I know, I received a telegram this morning from Alfred. It appears Scotland Yard is at a loss of what to do next.”

“Well then, what are you planning to do, my darling? Surely you must know everything?”

Marianne knew about my indigenous past, as did a select few. Against my better judgment, I shared one night of unbridled passion with her and, fearing it would cause damage to both our reputations, convinced her it was best to remain just friends.

She possessed the most marvelous eyes, likened to two pools of a light blue ocean, with skin of porcelain. Her cheekbone structure divine and she always wore the latest designs from Paris, setting her apart in style. Gender roles are clearly defined in this Victorian Era, women in particular are expected to marry at the earliest opportunity and portray a weak inferior persona. Marianne did not fit that category, a dramatic actress with the spirit of an unbroken horse. One of only a handful of successful west-end performers and the daughter of a Sussex School Master, she had reached the ranks of the popular, becoming the toast of London society and a trusted confidant.

“I wish I could have been with you in those biblical times,” she remarked, running a middle finger seductively across my top lip. I could feel my manhood rising, but like a gentleman, I fought the urge.

“Stop that. You know we have an agreement not to become romantically inclined.”

“A girl can try. At least give her credit for that.”

“I only want to savor the memory of an extraordinary night. Let’s not spoil it,” said I, doing my best to stay in control. Hundreds of years taught me well. For example: how to restrain myself when in close proximity to an irresistible woman, such as Marianne Ashmore who, was truly delightful. I loved her fiery temperament and scandalous talk of joining the ever-growing band of women campaigning for the right to vote. Her company was forcing me to digress from my plan to journey to Albert. With matters to attend to; Marianne had to leave.