Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) Page 5

  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 a
fter 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.”

  Marianne adored champagne, Krug being her favorite and it surprised me how many glasses she could consume, yet keep her faculties in order. My other guests were frequently shocked at the amount, anticipating her drunkenness, but there was none. I once asked if she thought herself sinful at times. She replied, if enjoying one’s life to the fullest was a sin, then hell must be very full and heaven empty. Of course, she arrived after the hour. Late as usual, looking radiant and her cheeks flushed, she greeted my guests with enthusiasm.

  “I am to be married!” she exclaimed loudly.

  “So who is the lucky man then? Do we know the gentleman in question?” The Captain was a man of some standing and had dined with Royals. In spite of Marianne’s way of life, he expected her not to marry someone beneath her station. That would be too unthinkable.

  “Why it’s Mr. Robert Pratt, of course. Surely, Captain, you know of him? He is the toast of the town on account of his large investments in many fine theatre productions.”

  “A man of considerable wealth, you can do worse than that my dear. I give a toast to you and congratulations, my dear girl.”

  We toasted our glasses, but silence befell me. There was a strange feeling in my stomach, as if I had been hit by an object of some weight.

  “Be happy for me, my darling,” said Marianne, quietly in my ear.

  “I am truly happy for you. Now you can move to Cornwall and have your many children.”

  “Sarcasm is not a form of wit, Emanuel, and it does not suit you one bit!”

  “I expect deep down he’d be wondering how long it will last. How long before you give up domesticity and return to the bright lights of London?” said Roderick.

  “I am far from amused at your rudeness. You have resented my acquaintance with Emmanuel from the start. For the years we have been acquainted, and the months I have known you, I resent your intrusion into our friendship. But, you can rest assured it will be improper for me to call on him alone as I have been doing. I am soon to be engaged so I must act accordingly.”

  “Does that mean the well-meaning friendship is over?” he replied.

  “Of course not. It’s just taken a different direction.”

  The Captain and his wife looked the other way, causing me to become embarrassed and uncomfortable. Her comments would now, via the Captain, reach the ears of many who will conclude a tawdry, clandestine relationship between Marianne and I had occurred. They would jump to conclusions concerning her late night appearances. If word reached Robert, her engagement would be in jeopardy. I had to act quickly.

  “Captain and Mrs. Braithwaite, I can assure you that there was never any impropriety between Marianne and I. We are the closest of friends and her visits to me after hours were simply social. She would relax with a glass of champagne and gentle conversation, having worked so hard on stage.”

  “Of course, I understand dear fellow, and Marianne, although it is a trite risqué to call on a gentleman alone after hours, we know you are both of good morals, fine, upstanding and honest citizens.” If only the Captain knew how far from the truth he was, the scandal would be torrid indeed.

  Roderick was far from amused showing his discontent by turning away and appearing to take in the view from the garden. It did occur to me the carefully applied cosmetic powder would rub off due to his stress and the Captain and his wife would be mortified by his zombie like appearance. I had already convinced everyone Roderick’s eyes had been severely weakened by light, hence the darkened glasses he must wear constantly and his unnatural tallness due to a growth deformity that ran in the family.

  I was saved by the announcement dinner was served and, making my way to the dining room, I observed Roderick and Marianne seemingly called a truce. She slipped her arm in his and he, like a real gentleman, escorted her to dinner. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  After a sumptuous meal, Marianne and Mrs. Braithwaite retired to the drawing room, leaving us men to enjoy an after dinner brandy.

  “I expect you’re somewhat relieved to see Miss Marianne settled at last. She is something of a wild cat at times, don’t you think?” asked the Captain.

  He was of an older generation who, faced with Marianne, a free spirit who refused to be oppressed by rules and morals. The poor old fashioned Captain didn’t know quite how to take her.

  “I’m hoping Robert will be the one to settle her down, though I’ll wager he’ll have a job on his hands to do so,” replied Roderick.

  “I am most pleased for her, and Robert Platt is an agreeable chap. It’s a good match, they both love the theatre,” said the Captain. “So, Emmanuel, what news of Jack from your acquaintance, Albert?”

  “I have no new updates. Nothing other than what you see in the daily newspapers.” I had become expert in covering my tracks, having been forced into situations where dishonesty was required and sometimes a necessary evil.

  “Surely your friend has something other than the stagnant articles I’m forced to read. The description of the murderer is vague, misleading and occasionally downright ludicrous. One day he is someone from the butchers market, and then he is an eminent surgeon and possibly a member of the royal family. The last thing I read was that he was a Russian sailor who had absconded from his ship at the East India docks and by all accounts was running amok in Whitechapel.”

  “So many rumors and conjectures. Perhaps expected in a case where the murders appear to have been committed by the same hand. Until he is apprehended, the newspapers will continue to speculate. Let us pray they catch the scoundrel soon,” said I.

  I wanted to speak out and say I am waiting in the wings to strike. That I hoped the stolen files were on the way, and I would hunt Jack down until the bitter end. But I was bound by silence for my own good.

  “Roderick, old chap, you’re looking under the weather. I hope the influenza isn’t striking.

  Regretfully, the Captain was unable to ignore his complexion had paled considerably.

  “I am overworked, far too many long hours in the office.”

  “I hope that is all it is and that you are not coming down with something,” he replied as he stared intensely at Roderick. I had to agree his complexion was dreadful, a distinct lack of face powder revealing all.

  To my relief, he excused himself and made haste to my bedchamber. There he could make use of a mirror to reapply enough of the darkest power so he appeared to belong in the land of the living. Meanwhile, the Captain and I joined the ladies, whereupon Mrs. Braithwaite did not waste a moment to comment.

  “I do not understand why a charming and handsome man like you is not yet married. Pray tell me Emmanuel, are you intending to become an eternal bachelor?”

  The eternal part was correct, that I could do nothing about, but the bachelor status was a bone of contention. I yearned for true love and the one and only woman who would steal my heart. But where would I find such a special woman, who would k
now she was to wither and grow old while I did not? This was not something I could confide with the formidable Celia Braithwaite, a woman who sat on the high echelon of society and whose name was on everyone’s guest list.

  “The right woman has not yet appeared. Besides, I really have to concentrate on my business interests first.”

  My response appeased her. I was sure it was talk of marriage with Marianne that encouraged her to ponder on my lack of a suitor. Meanwhile, to my relief, Roderick reappeared looking much healthier and smiling.

  “I beg your pardon for my absence. Captain, Mrs. Braithwaite, I feel much better now. It was the quail not agreeing with me,” said he.

  “Oh my goodness. I hope the quail was fresh Emmanuel?” replied Mrs. Braithwaite.

  “I found it quite delicious and the freshest it could be. Roderick has a very delicate stomach, like a baby’s,” said Marianne finding another avenue of insult.

  “My stomach is that of an ox, dear woman. Is minic a bhris beal duine a shron!”

  “My dear man, what is it that you are saying? I’m sure you are aware that Gaelic eludes me.”

  “In a nutshell, Miss Marianne, your mouth will lead you into a lot of trouble.”

  “How dare you insult me with such sarcasm? I am highly offended!”

  “Then I have done a good deed for the evening!”

  “The hour is late. It is time for us to take our leave, thank you for a wonderful dinner Emmanuel, soon you must dine with us,” said the Captain, ushering Mrs. Braithwaite to her feet with Marianne following suit. Their sudden escape was the perfect solution to end the building tension and a chance for me to discover what was really bothering Roderick. Marianne, once calmed would, as she had done in the past, think on what was said and brush off the comment, taking very little to heart.

  “Let us partake of a small brandy and talk,” I suggested, wanting to find exactly what was amiss.