Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) Read online

  “You have my word as a gentleman that our conversations remain between us,” said I, without a flinch. My villainous nature I tried so hard to suppress and change was in play. I would make good eye contact with the Inspector, keep my body language in order, so as not to give any clues away and act with sympathy. He would not suspect me for one second; I would be on his side.

  “I received a telegram from your colleague in New York confirming your stature and I was wondering if you had yet been to Whitechapel in your capacity? If so, did you manage to find any new witnesses?”

  “I plan to venture back soon. Your constable did take me to the crime scenes and I will return and report any snippet of information I find directly to you.”

  Seemingly content with my blatantly dishonest answer, I could not help but notice his extreme concern about the ever growing failure to catch Jack eating away at his very being. If it is Ratibor, then Scotland Yard would be an ill fated match indeed.

  “I am asking you to please be careful. Whitechapel is an area that is unfamiliar to you. Thieves and vagabonds abound in those streets and do watch out for the opportunists who are worse for drink, falling out of the Ale houses desperate for a few pennies to buy another gin. They will see a gentleman like you as easy pickings.”

  “I will watch out for myself, as I explained to you on our last meeting, I have much experience in the line of confrontation.”

  The moment he left, I was wracked with guilt over the young detective put in charge of the files who may lose his promotion or even his job and future. You’re still Judas through and through, look what you have done now!

  he early evening brought new thoughts. At what hour would I make my way into Whitechapel and where exactly will I be going? There had been no new murders up to this point, only a trail of mismatched information, conjecture and fake letters that served to throw the police off any of the leads they clung to. It had become a fiasco of grand proportions. I, for one, did not want it to be Ratibor. But the eerie feeling it was stayed with me, forcing me to consider going it alone in Whitechapel. I wanted to leave Roderick out of the picture. Strong as he was, he was no match for such evil. Come to think of it, neither was I.

  After a meal of steak pie that lay heavy on my nervous stomach, I sat by the fire reading. I observed the time on my grandfather clock that chimed gently on the hour. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock, eleven o’clock. It began to get late into the night. My driver, Donald, waited patiently downstairs for me to ring after I informed him in the afternoon I wished to be taken into Whitechapel. He made neither a remark nor looked surprised. That being said, he was not aware I would be asking so late or my true intentions. At the hour of midnight, I summoned him to prepare the carriage. He was bleary eyed. I was full of anticipation and fully awake.

  Asking no questions and following my instructions to drop me in the heart of Whitechapel, we made our way east. The night streets were deserted except for a carriage or two as our surroundings changed. From the stillness of Belgravia to the noise of the east end, I arrived as the area was in full swing. Donald stopped the carriage by the London Hospital, unsure whether to proceed further.

  “This will do nicely, Donald.” It appeared to be a good spot.

  “Sir, are you sure you want me to leave you here? I can wait if you so wish.”

  “No need to wait for me. I will summon a cab when needed. Off you go, home to your bed.”

  I was content with my attire; Roderick had assisted me in purchasing clothes more befitting a middle class gentleman than upper class. I wore a long dark overcoat in a rather cheap cloth, trousers to go with the ensemble and a hat more suitable for Whitechapel than Belgravia. I did not need to stand out, shock or draw unwanted attention. I watched as Donald disappeared into the distance. Left to my own devices, I was now in unknown territory, eager and willing to complete my quest at any cost.

  “Oy mate, you got a copper for a cup of tea?”

  “Me baby ain’t got no milk, tuppence is all I’m asking, please, sir.”

  The beggars appeared out of the dark shadows, clothing old and torn, faces pale and unwashed.

  “’Ere mister, need a guide?” A small boy, who looked to be no more than ten years of age, latched onto me. I felt for my wallet, it was still there. Experience taught me child beggars were rife wherever I roamed. His unwashed stench was something I tried to dismiss, and I did not trust him, fearing he would lead me into a bad situation.

  “I need to get to Duffield Street, do you know it?” I asked.

  “Yeah I know it. I can take yer somewhere better than that. Rosie’s place. Proper nice it is there, pretty girls an’ all.”

  I understood he thought my intentions were to secure a prostitute, but a small price paid if time spent with one of those ladies might yield information. My brain analyzed the outcome.

  “Rosie’s will do just fine and I expect you to take me straight there, no deviating.”

  “It don’t come cheap and Rosie gets mad if yer don’t pay up. She’s got big Archie working for ‘er, he’ll beat the bloody stuffing out of yer.”

  I presumed big Archie was a henchman protector of the brothel, to be expected, since the murders owners became more cautious of their business.

  “I have the means to pay, and what exactly is your fee for taking me there?” Although it was difficult to negotiate with a child who should have been tucked up in his bed, I was left with little choice. Better him than an untrustworthy adult who might have attempted to rob me the moment we reached a darkened alley.

  “Tuppence is what I want.”

  “Then we have a deal. Now, take me to Rosie.”

  On the way, he informed me he was known as Nipper. I surmised that wasn’t his real name, and he resided in Whitechapel with an older gentleman. He was taken care of, along with a host of other young lads. I presumed it was one of numerous dens that operated in the area, procuring boys who would surely face a harsh life in an orphanage. Instead, they would be taught the art of pick pocketing in return for food and shelter. Nipper did not reveal the truth. Instead he spun a yarn, that he was eagerly waiting for his father, who promised to take him to Devon where his wealthy grandmother lived, to be released from prison. A sad fantasy indeed.

  “It’s down ‘ere and to the right.” He was walking faster than I could catch up and to my horror led me to Dorset Street, one of the roughest and most dangerous places in the area. It was teeming with ale houses and brothels. Drunkards being thrown out by angry innkeepers, landed unceremoniously by my feet as women walked past in search of clients.

  “’Allo, fine sir. Are ya looking for fun tonight?”

  “Please, I need money for me lodgings. I promise yer a good time.”

  “’Ere’s what you want, right ‘ere,” said one, lifting her skirt high enough to reveal the top of her stockings.

  Ignoring the suggestive remarks, I followed Nipper, unsure of what I was being led into. I walked by one prostitute after another, each wearing the signature low cut bodice to attract the men, garish red painted lips and overuse of face powder creating an almost clown like appearance. The sound of horse’s hooves came close to reveal a fine carriage pull up to the curb. The door opened for a pretty, fair haired girl who hitched up her skirt and climbed in without a care in the world.

  My heart skipped a beat. It was irresponsible of the girl after so many murders. Most of them had begun to work in pairs, too fearful to walk the streets alone, yet unable to give up a profession that meant the difference between living on the streets and having a room. It was a sorrowful sight to see, painful, upsetting and it forced me to think perhaps I was truly deepening in my compassion for others

  “’Ere we are, mate. Give us me money and I’ll be on me way.” Nipper had brought me to a small terrace house, the shabby curtains drawn but there was light inside. I handed him the money and he knocked firmly on the door before scuttling off into the night.

  “Yeah, who’s there?” a woman’
s voice called from within.

  “Nipper brought me here, madam. I am looking for entertainment.”

  The door opened to a large built woman with a scandalously low cut red dress that did nothing to hide her curvaceous bosom. Her blackened hair, thick and wild, did not flatter and she eyed me with great suspicion.

  “Get in and close the bloody door behind yer, quickly!”

  I did as she requested, her sense of urgency justified. It would be very shameful for me to be caught by the police in a brothel. In spite of the risk, I followed her into the front parlor, a small and well kept room with red cushions and velvet drapery to match, a sign of erotica. The carpet was well-worn with holes and the damp ridden walls disguised with paintings of a risqué nature. I assumed this was to encourage customers to get ‘in the mood’, so to speak.

  “It’s five shillings for the girl and the room. ‘Ow old do ya want? I’ve got ‘em fresh as a daisy or seasoned.”

  Doing my best to hide amusement at her comment, I opted for seasoned. A young girl would know less than one out on the streets. I gave up the exorbitant sum of five shillings that she stored in her ample bosom. Archie watched my every move, keeping a distance.

  “Wait ‘ere.” Rosie handed me a small glass of rough whisky, leaving me to my own company. Less than a minute later, a young fair haired woman appeared in a long white dress, so transparent her under slip could be seen. Barefoot and beautiful, she smiled sweetly.

  “Would yer like to come with Mary? I’ve got something to show yer.”

  Taking me by the hand, she led me up narrow stairs to a small room with a single bed, a nightstand and a small oil lamp giving off a rancid smell. Her clothes were scattered everywhere with not a place to sit except for the bed, which I avoided.

  “Take off yer coat an’ yer ’at unless yer not stoppin’.”

  “I would like it if we can talk first. I am a trite nervous of this strange situation.”

  “First time for yer, then?”

  “No, I have had women before.”

  “I meant first time with a scrubber. You know what I mean, don’t ya?”

  “Yes, this would be the first time.”

  I expected she had seen many unusual situations in her line of work. I had suspicions the men who needed only to talk were the married ones who experienced sexual difficulties with their wives. I envisioned Mary sitting on the end of the bed watching the clock tick the time away as she took the role of psychiatrist. Happy, I’m sure, to listen to his tale of woe, easy money indeed. Presuming I was one of those men, she sat next to me on the bed, hitched up her skirt and launched into her patter.

  “Tell me the problem, dearie. Mary’ll sort yer out.”

  She may have been a little rough around the edges, but her shiny blonde hair, porcelain skin and slender, well manicured hands were a joy to see. Mary smiled a sweet smile, astute and skilled in her work.

  “Did you know, perchance, any of the poor girls who were murdered in recent weeks?”

  “Who are yer? What yer be wanting with me and why’s a gentleman like you asking?”

  “I am a detective of a private nature, so you have nothing to fear from me. I am only looking for information on the victims or anything else you can tell me.”

  “Information? That’ll cost extra, me brain needs to work ‘arder.”

  I passed her another five shillings, a sum I considered more than enough, trusting her to not give false information.

  “I’ve been done, yer know. Dog stealing,” said she.

  “Why on earth would you steal people’s dogs?”

  “Nah, not the four paw variety! It’s called that. Yer go up to some bloke who’s worse for the drink and you rob ‘im. Normal it’s gotta be a stupid fella. I’d nab ’is watch, ’is money or anything else. I’d ‘ave me minder with me, a bloke. If the punter gets shirty then the minder goes up and knocks the punter about like ’e’s my boyfriend, yelling to leave ’is woman alone. It’s mostly the mugs we get and I can make a lot of money that way. Mind you, like I said I got caught once.”

  “What happened, did they send you to prison?”

  “Nah, I got bound over to keep the peace and fined a shilling. I knew the Judge yer see, one of me regulars!” she replied as she tucked the money down the side of her boot.

  Mary was a character, indeed, and I was enthralled with her tale of dog stealing. But I needed to stay on track and gain information.

  “Mary, did you know any of the victims?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I knew Long Liz.”

  “I don’t recall anyone killed of that name?”

  “It was her nickname. ’Er real name was Lizzie Stride, short as a midget she was, so I never got why they all called ‘er long Lizzie. She was always on the streets or in the ale ‘ouses. Brothels wouldn’t ‘ave ’er on account of ’er not looking so good, if yer know what I mean.”

  “But you knew of her, or knew her well?”

  “I’d see ‘er a lot at Spitalfields or around ‘ere walking the streets. She was always asking me for money or a meeting with Rosie. I told ‘er ‘Lizzie you ain’t pretty enough. Rose’s got standards, she don’t take on the ugly ones.’”

  “What of her clients? Did you ever see any of them or one in particular, a regular perhaps?”

  “Oh my gaud, she’d ‘ad so many. There was this one, a Russian sailor, not a nice bloke. Beat ‘er up good every time they ‘ad sex. He’d need to, she’d tell me and then there was the pleaser, I saw ‘im once. ’E were proper rich, a classy gent an’ all, but with the strangest eyes, almost black they were and bloodshot all the time. He was short like ‘er, Lizzie told me ’e was no trouble.”

  “A short man with black eyes. Do you recall if he wore a dark overcoat?” My heart was pumping.

  “All the time, she said, even when it was warm. Proper strange ‘e was, overdressed an’ all. She depended on ‘im showing up regular on account she was mostly living on the streets. The money ’e gave ‘er was enough for the boarding ‘ouse for a couple a nights.”

  “When was the last time you saw him, Mary?”

  “I ain’t seen ‘im since she were found dead. A lot of punters ‘ave disappeared, scared of the police they are. ‘Ere Mister… Time’s up, and tell Rosie I was good, I don’t wanna lose me work ‘ere.”

  I could not wait to leave the discomfort I found myself in; it was not a reflection on Mary, whom I pitied. It was more the dread of her description. The man in a dark overcoat who appeared to be short, foreign and dark eyed. It also appeared no matter what the weather he was unable to shed his winter attire.

  Ratibor was never seen without a cloak wrapped around his person. Even when the temperature in Constantinople was soaring above thirty degrees, he would be cloaked. Upon knowing he had spent time with Lizzie Stride, I urged Mary to be cautious and, stay within the confines of the brothel. Sadly, she informed me if it was not her turn for the rental of the room, then she would have to return to the streets searching for men to take her to lodgings.

  Outside I became chilled and pulled my coat lapels tight to my neck to keep warm as I wandered the dark, lonely streets. Rats ran across my path and the rancid smell of stale ale permeated the air from numerous drinking establishments. As repulsive as it was, the importance of getting to know the area was uppermost. I decided to enter the first alehouse I came across in the hope to find others who would tell me about the man with black eyes and a foreign accent.

  Fatigued as I was becoming, having been awake for most of the night, I mustered the strength to enter an arena packed full of the poor creatures of London’s neglected east-end.

  “What can I get yer?” the bearded landlord asked. He had a look of menace, a man who would tolerate no violence in his establishment.

  “Rum if you please, landlord.” The coldness had seeped into my bones, I needed something to warm myself and rum was a good choice. But this popular import from tropical lands was rough to the taste. The finest and the worst quality broug
ht by ship to England. I was given a glass of the worst rum, barely drinkable. Concerned I might be perceived as arrogant if I complained, I forced myself to drink the hideous liquid.

  “What’s a gent like you doing ‘ere, slumming?” A woman, heavily intoxicated, approached. It appeared my attire failed in hiding my true self.

  “I am passing through, madam, on my way to the North of England. I am a salesman.”

  “You’re proper ‘andsome you are, dark hair and those blue eyes. Buy me a gin and I’ll keep yer company.”

  She was typical of the fallen women of Whitechapel, worn out clothes and dirty fingernails. Her hair was unwashed and the darkened shadows that circled her eyes told tales of a poor diet, too much alcohol, and lack of sleep. It was a surety the lifespan of these people, given their surroundings, were of a short length, old age a miracle to behold. In order not to arouse suspicion of being so out of place, I complied with an order of gin. “What a charmer,” said she, “I could go for yer, honest I could.” Before I could politely decline her suggestion, a giant brute of a man with violent emotions approached me, his intentions obvious.

  “What do yer want with me woman?” he asked loudly.

  “I want nothing with your woman, kind sir,” I replied. “I have only, in good faith, given her a drink.”

  I did not have the time to react to the punch that came my way, being a full fist into the direction of my nose. There was a crack and a small tinge of pain that did not force me to put my hands over my face, nor fall to the ground. I remained where I was.

  “What the?” he remarked, his clenched fist once more flying in my direction. But I was in readiness and felled his hand, causing him to stop in mid-flight. The woman screamed, her intoxication created an emotional outburst that resulted in hysterical tears and the foulest obscenities.

  “I ask you, dear sir, to refrain from hitting me again or I will be forced to retaliate.” We were locked in a frame, his fist held firmly in my one hand, my other holding his arm.