Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) (9 page)

“I do not suppose you can reveal the identity of who gained access to the files?”

“The least you know the better. Let us say it was an inside job and leave it there. Are you not going to open the package to see that everything is in order before you hand over the money and, please, don’t forget my fifty guineas, also?”

I trusted Albert, but knew nothing of the person who obtained the file. He could have been a conman for all I knew. Carefully, I pulled the string from the brown paper to reveal a buff colored cardboard file. Inside were reams of papers, each one giving great details of each victim, autopsy photographs, names of detectives in charge and a list of possible suspects. I had struck gold!

“Splendid, Albert, and so quickly done.”

“You, of course, never asked me for anything and I hope I can trust you to secrecy. After all, according to your story, betrayal is nothing new to you.

“Do you really think I would do something like that again?”

“There’s no telling what you will do under pressure.”

“Maybe I’m not Judas after all, maybe I jest?”

“Perhaps you do, but I am not prepared to take any risks. Make sure you lock the papers away in a safe place and tell no one!”

“My lips are to be permanently sealed.” I lied of course, Roderick already knew.

Albert was forced to leave urgently for a mundane interview with a lowly politician, his mood somber. Worry about such a serious theft outweighed the handsome sum of two hundred pounds he received. I hoped I had the right information in my possession. All told it cost me a considerable amount for what I considered to be a charitable act. Alone, and with the door locked, I began to study my spoils. Formalities and protocol abounded with papers marked ‘confidential do not show to newspapers.’ Pure nonsense, making use of them brings more attention to the general public. A memory is often jogged if something is written or a photograph seen. There were one or two resignations and dozens of letters, scrawls from pranksters who enjoyed taunting the police whilst gaining attention by claiming to be Jack the Ripper. Albert had seen a fair share of them delivered to his office and the police had even gone so far as to accuse the newspapers of creating the letters themselves to increase popularity and sales.

As I studied the reports, it was clear that no detectives had taken the ‘I am Jack’ letters seriously. Neither did I. Ramblings from the mentally disturbed were little more than a hindrance to my reading. Hastily, I brushed them aside.

Hour after hour, I perused one file after the other, slowly building a picture of possible suspects in greater detail. Most gruesome were the autopsy photographs, graphic close ups of the victims’ bodies and faces. All of the photographs showed extensive bruising, on the face in particular. This was an angry killer, his inflicted wounds told a story and built a picture of someone with a rage so deep not even Hercules could have restrained him. Marked ‘highly confidential’ each photograph reminded me of what I was dealing with; I spent the rest of the day and night in study, determined to leave no stone unturned. The following morning, unexpectedly, Roderick joined me for breakfast. I was full of adrenalin as I informed him I had the files. Unable to contain his curiosity, he asked to see the smoking gun I held in my possession

“These words are the work of mad men!” he said as he poured over the infamous letters. “Wait a minute. Manny, these are original letters, Scotland Yard will know they are missing.”

“Albert explained they were but a handful. There are so many they won’t miss them. It seems that murder brings the unstable out of the shadows. So, what do you think so far?”

“What I am thinking is, someone is missing copies of their files. How long will it be before they notice they are gone and what will be the reaction when they realize they are missing their autopsy photographs?”

“Scotland Yard is in chaos over this case. The more I read, the more I see that this investigation is a disarray of grand proportions. In the midst of their confusion they will simply see a file as mislaid and someone will be reprimanded, even suspended. The coroner would have produced more than one photograph and nothing will lead back to me, or the source. I am in the clear.”

My trait of complacency was an affliction not diminished with time. The view that nothing can happen to me as an invincible immortal put me in the deepest troubles on far too many occasions. Yet I do not learn the lesson and continued to take risks, regardless of consequence. On the other hand, Roderick had a level head on his shoulders, his Irish sense of foreboding sharp and profound. We were at times chalk and cheese.

“Pray to God Almighty that nothing bad happens to you for this. I don’t have a good feeling.”

“You worry too much and you’ll see how, when I hand over Jack, they’ll forget all about the file. In the meantime, I will keep good contact with the police. They will not be at all suspicious of me.”

For hours we labored over a grand stack of papers, meticulously studying every detail. I learned to read and write with perfection over hundreds of years and was surprised to see so many grammatical errors. This was, after all, files from Scotland Yard, supposedly England’s finest police force.

“You are very much a proper English gentleman, the way you speak, your attire. I should imagine a detective not finding you suspicious of anything on account of your surreptitious nature,” Roderick replied with a grin.

“I have been around longer, affording me the finer skills in adjusting to almost all surroundings. Adaptation is the key to blending in with impunity. I am also very adept at becoming an aspiring American gentleman or a European man about town if the need arose.”

Yes, I am a chameleon, able to work on changing my style, speech, language and behavior to suit the century and ever changing with trends and times. What’s an immortal to do, remain stuck a century or two behind? I would surely stick out like a sore thumb.

“Take a look at this,” I said, handing him a document.

It speculated Jack may have been of foreign origin. A female witness to Annie Chapman’s last moments had seen her talking with a man and partially overheard the conversation as she was walking by in the early morning hours. Apparently, they were talking very loudly and she heard the man ask ‘will you?’ Annie had replied, ‘yes.’ The witness, Elizabeth Long, came forward with this information and was taken to the mortuary to identify the woman she had seen in Hanbury Street. Upon seeing the body, she confirmed it was the woman she saw, claiming the man was around forty years of age with a quiet disposition, dressed in a dark overcoat and a brown hat partially covering his face. A man not of great height, no more than five feet four inches.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked Roderick, hoping he too sensed the familiarity of the description. “A foreign man, extremely short, dressed in a dark overcoat.”

“Oh dear God, tell me it’s not
who
I think it is,” he replied in alarm.

“What would the chances be? Of all the immortals I encountered, and not
that
many, I would be so unfortunate to run up against Ratibor.”

Even the sound of his name being said brought shivers down my spine. He was once a devilish eleventh century warrior who terrorized anyone in his path. He was an evil immortal from the Byzantine Empire who gained pleasure from creating hell on earth. Lo betide anyone who dared to stand up against him.

Roderick knew much about my time spent in Constantinople and how I watched Ratibor crush the skull of a young maiden who refused his advances. He was a misogynist, a murderer of great strength and capacity, often torturing his victims before he killed them; begging for mercy would be futile, Ratibor’s destructive rage was unstoppable

It had not been my good fortune to come face to face with his short but muscular frame and blazing black eyes. Upon my confession to another I was immortal and on a quest for coins, word reached him who I was. To prove I was a liar, he attempted to stake me through the heart and missed. Seeing I bled little, and recovered in a second, he challenged me to a duel with swords. We fought, for hours long, until neither won and drew a guarded truce. I
despised
the man and what he stood for. If he was in London, I was to be assured he continued relentlessly with his killing spree throughout the centuries.

“I expect that we are only surmising it’s him. It could be all manner of suspects and we have no evidence that the man is here in England,” said Roderick.

“’Indeed,” I answered, “but we have no evidence to the contrary either.”

“If it is him, then he’s going to be a challenging adversary. Difficult to stop, I would imagine.”

Roderick was never far from the truth. How will I stop another like myself, yet more powerful?

I was to be stopped in my tracks by the unthinkable; someone knocking on the front door.

“Who can that be? Tradesman always knock downstairs,” said I in panic.

“Are you expecting anyone? Perhaps it’s Marianne?”

“No, she assured everyone it would be improper to call on me now she is engaged.”

We looked at each other in nervous anticipation. I carried the guilt of theft, not a comfortable feeling, by all means. Whoever was calling would be administered a cordial greeting regardless, I could give nothing away. Within moments my worst nightmare unfolded. Edward informed me that a Chief Inspector Donald Swanson wished to see me. “Please ask him to wait.” I kept little variation in my tone, acting as normal as I could under the circumstances, and closed the door. We had but a moment.

“Lock the file away in the safe, Roderick Quickly, man!” I urged.

“Eist moran agus can beagan!”

“What are you saying? You know I have little knowledge of Gaelic.”

“Hear much and say little!” Roderick’s habit of speaking in his Gaelic tongue when in a tight corner only served to increase my anxiety.

“I must away, right now!” he said in great panic.

“Then that would appear mighty suspicious. Wait until the introductions are over then explain
calmly
you must go to the office, there is urgent business to attend to.”

I rang the bell for Edward to allow the Swanson fellow to enter my study, as the seconds ticked by; I did my best to bring about composure. I needed the encounter to be favorable, a friendly anticipation and healthy curiosity as to his reason for calling. His appearance gave nothing away- I greeted him cordially.

“Good morning, Chief Inspector, and what a fine winter morning it is.”

“Yes, it’s temperate weather for the time of year, and I hope all is well with you, Emmanuel.”

“Very well indeed, and may I introduce Roderick Cooley, my business associate.”

“An Irish name, Cooley. Are you a Dublin man?”

I noticed Swanson perusing Roderick carefully, unsure of his appearance.

“I am now an American residing in Virginia.”

The flat dismissal, bordered on rudeness, did not fare well with me. I needed Roderick to leave, as soon as possible.

“It is a busy working day today, Chief Inspector, and Roderick must away to the office. Will you please excuse him?”

“Of course, my dear man. We all have busy lives to attend to.”

It was a relief to see him go, I hoped, with another century or two under his belt, he will be more confident and adaptable to all predicaments.

“What do I owe this visit Chief Inspector? Would you care for some tea?”

“A cup of tea would do nicely, thank you.”

I rang the bell for Edward to bring a pot of tea whilst I encouraged the Inspector to make himself comfortable. He appeared impressed with my surroundings, admiring some rare antique pieces and enquiring of their history. With the files safely under lock and key, I had nothing to fear.

While we waited there was idle talk of the weather, current politics and the state of English cricket. The longer we discussed trivial matters the more relaxed I felt, unlike Roderick who was more than likely in a high state of anxiety, brought on by not knowing the outcome.

With the tea poured and a cake in his hand, he spoke in earnest.

“I am at a loss with this case. In my entire career I have never had so many false leads, countless witnesses with a different description and too many murders in a short space of time. It has become a chaos at the Yard. Resignations, heated arguments, complications and now to make matters worse, heads will roll on account of missing or stolen files.”

“Missing or stolen files? How can that be, who was in charge of their security? I hope it was not you, good sir.”

“No, they were last in the possession of one of the junior detectives, who had been recently assigned to the case. Not a good start to his promotion, I think.”

“As you say, there is much chaos. I expect they have gone missing rather than stolen, certain to reappear when you are better organized.”

“I trust your confidence in this matter, Mister Ortiz. Any leakages to the newspapers will be very damaging, as our popularity with the people is at its lowest since we are yet to bring forward an arrest.”

“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.”