Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (17 page)

It had begun to rain. Dampness did not concern me, not even the thick fog that enveloped this part of the city. If I had something to do outside, the elements were to be of no concern and this night was to be no exception.

From behind came the sound of footsteps. I turned a corner proceeding with no real alarm to begin with, but as they seemed to come closer, I stiffened in readiness. Upon reaching the end of the street I turned to confront the follower and was stopped with an arm firmly placed on my shoulder. “Where are you off to tonight, sir?” I had come face to face with a tall, uniformed constable.

“Good evening constable, I was just taking a night stroll to become acquainted with the area, having taken temporary lodgings nearby. As I am setting up a business locally, I thought it a good idea to become familiarized with the geographical layout,” said I, knowing it sounded like a weak excuse.

“Are you sure that’s the true nature of your business? I believe, sir, you’re walking these streets looking for extra pleasures.” He was suspicious. I
had
to convince him otherwise.

“I am telling the truth, constable. I can walk with you to show you my lodgings and I am more than willing to put you in contact with my office manager, if you so wish. I have no desire to search for other pleasures.”

“Perhaps you are slumming? We don’t tolerate that on these streets.”

I did not want to be grouped with the bored upper class who deliberately dressed down to visit the worst stricken areas of London. ‘Seeing how the other half lived’ had become such a popular sport, even I had been forced to listen to their misguided adventures at dinner parties.

“I would never disrespect an area in that way, constable. I can assure you my intentions are sincere.”

It seemed to abate him and, with a nod or two, he allowed me to go on my way after a warning to be careful of robbers. He hoped any money on my person was tucked safely away as he gave me information on the finer rules of pick pocketing.

“You’re walking through some of the most crime ridden streets in London, sir, at a very late hour. Also, we still have the Jack the Ripper fella at large. I urge you to proceed with caution.”

It must have appeared irresponsible that I would be foolish enough to walk alone through Whitechapel in the middle of the night, to a constable or anyone. Every now and again a figure would emerge, out of the shadows of a doorway or alley. Male or female, they would follow me with their black rimmed eyes, suspicious of a stranger not dressed in familiar rags or cheap clothing. I could not help but be alerted by every sight or sound, my senses heightened wondering if Jack could be lurking somewhere in the deep dark shadows.

“I will find you, if it takes a hundred nights. I do not care how smart you think you are, and if it is you, Ratibor, I have no fear
,
” I said aloud.

There was no one to hear my words. If they had, perhaps they would think me quite insane talking to myself. What I said had serious meaning; he would not get away from me without a fight.

But why was I so concerned with catching Jack? I did not have the complete answer other than a wish to stop a madman killing innocent women and getting clean away each time. I also had a secret passion for detection. Not that I wished to be a policeman, although something to do with that type of work was an enticing thought indeed. My thoughts were interrupted when in the distance the sound of a police whistle blew repeatedly. Could it be the Ripper had struck again? I raced in direction of where I thought it might be. It did not take long to find others running in the same direction- as curious as I.

“Keep clear!” A constable stood a short distance from the lifeless form of a young man. Blood was seeping into the gutter from the pavement, a terrible head wound had been inflicted, and so ferocious part of the brain matter was hanging out.

“Stand back,” the constable ordered as people attempted to move closer. His whistle blowing summoned further officers and within minutes it had become pandemonium.

“That’s a young lad, what a sodding shame,” a man next to me remarked, shaking his head.

There was a massive amount of blood spreading rapidly across the pavement. It must have been a heavy weapon to inflict such an injury. I also observed he had been stabbed several times in the chest. It looked like the work of someone with great strength, enough to shatter a skull, and a savage anger. A classic case of overkill. The victim lay on his back, arms outstretched with his eyes wide open in terror. No more than twenty years of age, his clothes worn and his shoes tied with string. The once quiet streets had come alive as more and more people raced to the scene of a crime that appeared to have only just happened. Sadly, there did not seem to be one witness to such a violent and frenzied attack.

“I hope you don’t mind my enquiry, constable, but do you think this could have been the work of Jack the Ripper?” I asked.

“I have no idea. It may have been a dispute or a drunken fight. It’s now a case for Scotland Yard.”

I moved on before the police carriage arrived; whoever committed such a crime could not be far away with the body still warm. I stopped by a streetlamp to think. It was a habit of Ratibor to slice head’s open, a trademark. But I dismissed it as too much a coincidence he and I were in London at the same moment. It was pure imagination Jack was immortal.

Positive thoughts of it being a distinct possibility were dwindling and replaced with doubts. I always went on my trusted instincts. This time, I was, quite frankly, at a loss.

There was never a moment of fear or concern when I walked out for a stroll in the late night hours in Belgravia. Whitechapel was a different world, one where I needed to have my wits about me at all times. What if the young man had been unlucky? A random victim robbed and beaten to death for a few coppers? Was the perpetrator still out there or had he slipped back in the shadows? The further I walked away from the grisly scene the more secure I felt until I was accosted by a woman with a young child hanging onto her apron.

“’Ere Master, I need food for me kids. They’re starving and me little one’s got the scurvy. I ain’t got money for the doctor, ‘elp me,
please.
”

I didn’t quite know what to do under the circumstances. The woman and child were in dire straits, it was painfully obvious to see. But, I could not help be a trite suspicious as I peered into the darkness for a male accomplice to appear, primed for attack. No-one came, and I allowed the woman to continue to beg by not moving on. I was not and never would be a missionary or an east end charity worker. That was more Jesus’ style. I was better suited to be the warrior and the hunter.

“I will give you five shillings. It is more than enough to pay for the doctor and purchase food for the children and yourself.”

She took the money eagerly, thanking me profusely and almost bowing in my presence. It was a good feeling to be charitable with a total stranger, even if I did not care to admit it. Perhaps I would hear another tale of woe at the next corner as I searched my pockets for small change in readiness. The streets yielded nothing, no beggars or prostitutes roamed and the deathly quiet made even more sinister by the rain. It came down heavy- my calling card to return to my lodgings before I was soaked to the skin. I pulled out my pocket watch and was most surprised to see it was after midnight. I had walked for hours, covering most of Jack’s route, to find nothing. Suddenly, as if my prayers had been answered, I noticed a male figure walking ahead. In the dim gas light I could make out he was short and wearing a long dark
overcoat.
Could it be?

“Hey, you there!” I called, in the vain hope he had nothing to hide and would stop. “I said you there. Stop! I
must
speak with you.”

He stepped up his pace as did I, both of us walking faster by the second. It was important catch up with him, his actions far too suspicious for my liking. The rain began to come down hard, yet it did not stop me from gathering speed. Before I knew it, he broke into a run. Who was he and why would he wish to run away from me? He did not turn around when I called out, perhaps I had been trying to get another’s attention? This man had a guilty conscience.

“Whoa, stop right there. Why are you running?” I could not believe my misfortune, standing in front was the same constable from earlier who stopped and questioned me.

“I am in haste to return to my lodgings, constable. The bad weather has made my walk unpleasant,” I replied, considering my explanation highly feasible.

“Then it’s been a very long walk as it was quite a few hours ago that I asked you to state your business. I think it’s best you accompany me to the station.”

“But why, what do you suspect me of? I have done nothing wrong.”

“Just come with me, there’s a good chap, or I will have no choice but to handcuff you and take you by force. We can’t be careless about strangers in Whitechapel, especially the likes of you”

I realized at that point he was insinuating a suspicion. I could be Jack the Ripper.

The real suspect, who I was convinced was Ratibor, had gotten clean away without a scratch. I, on the other hand was to be marched unceremoniously down to the station for questioning, like a classic fool.

hitechapel Police Station was a sight for sore eyes. I did not expect to grace its doors in such a situation. The building had become the hub of the Ripper enquiry with Scotland Yard’s top detective’s working day and night to solve the case.

The constable was polite but firm, “Follow me, sir, to the sergeant’s desk.”

I did as I was told. There was nothing to hide and any sign of arrogance would not serve me in good faith. The sergeant was a burly man who half listened as the constable explained why he brought me in. I heard the words ‘loitering’ and ‘acting suspiciously.’ The most alarming, ‘suspicion of attempt to procure a prostitute’, caused me to wonder if I needed to secure legal help as soon as possible.

“Name?” the sergeant asked in a very sharp tone of voice.

“Emmanuel Ortiz.”

“That’s an odd name, are you a foreigner?”

“I reside in London, my family are of Spanish descent.”

“Then you’re a bloody foreigner.”

“If you wish to think so, Sergeant, then so be it.”

“Don’t be arrogant with me, you’ll be sorry.”

“A misunderstanding, Sergeant, I apologize.”

After that it was my date of birth, something I always paid attention to. Not seeming to ever look older than in my early thirties, I made sure my birth date appeared feasible. Then it was my address which raised an eyebrow. Belgravia happened to be one of the wealthiest areas of London.

I was made to wait in a small interview room with a duty constable watching over me as I sat in a chair, quiet as a mouse, praying it was all a terrible mistake.

“Cigarette?” asked the constable, offering the packet.

“No, thank you,” said I, becoming impatient.

It was a full hour or more before a young detective came into the room holding what appeared to be papers, never a good sign.

“Emmanuel Ortiz, my name is Detective Edwards and I am arresting you on suspicion of the theft of confidential police files, loitering with intent to secure a prostitute for payment and the illegal sale of opium. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be written down and may be used in evidence against you.”