by Aiden James
It was a twist of fate the recent spate of murders in London’s Whitechapel and the name alone, Jack the Ripper, coincided in need for something else. I told myself it was possible for me to undertake a search for the suspect. But, I could not run the business alone and needed someone trustworthy to assist. Only after many pleading telegrams did Roderick reluctantly agree to leave his home for the shortest time and take the journey to England. With his keen eye for business, I quickly made him a partner in the vain hope it would distract him from his frustration and I did so enjoy the company of my closest companion. Roderick found it troublesome to settle, he preferred the less formal ways of Virginia, which bended easier with his relaxed Irish ways. Unlike London, his strange, sometimes frightening appearance was largely ignored in a new world of countless immigrants.
His almost seven foot height intimidated most, including Albert, who refused to admit it and, was not weakened even by the sight of his cane. Forever the cynical joker, he decided to feign a leg injury taking too long to heal. The severity of his shuffle depending on whose company he found himself in, he played it beautifully and, fooling everyone.
In the meantime, I followed the Ripper case closely, devouring every newspaper I could lay my hands on, staying in close contact with Albert.
But it was proving very complicated as I had become far too ensconced in my business and social activities. Roderick thought me a snob, an upper class over-indulged so called English gentleman. I stood for everything he despised; his protest was to complain constantly about the weather and the formalities of the Victorian stiff upper class, and to speak Gaelic at every inappropriate moment.
I reminded him constantly that my friends and associates were unimpressed and, due to their lack of understanding, did not take kindly to his using the language. Roderick’s response was to ignore me and continue to use it regardless.
Albert put aside his distaste for Roderick to urge me, once and for all, not be so distracted by women and revelry. I was to be serious in my quest to take on the Leather Man.
“All your stories of battles drawn and won, surely a lone figure like him will be easy pickings. That is, if you are the fighter you claim to be,” he said. Often mindful of Albert’s uncertainty, never sure if he thought me insane or just plain deluded, I reassured him of my intentions.
It was time to take my leave as he had become slightly intoxicated and annoying, his belly full of steak and a head full of ale. Like so many of London’s newspaper men, his lifestyle consisted of a walk between his office and the closest Inn. The excuse? He would pick up on the idle chatter circulating. Somewhere in there could be a snippet of news that turned into a story or two.
Jack the Ripper. The Whitechapel murderer began his killing spree early in April of this year and picked the perfect location. London’s east-end had become swollen with the impoverished. Living conditions were abominable. With my own eyes, I had seen rats in the gutters where raw sewage ran with velocity. In less than fifty years, the entire area had disintegrated, crime was rife, robbery being most commonplace, with roughly distilled gin consumed like water. The deprivation brought an alarming increase in prostitution and the current murders only added to the area being labeled as ‘riddled with vice and danger.’ Few outsiders ventured there. There were rumors circulating that men of high social standing and, members of royalty, did slip unobtrusively in and out of Whitechapel for a quick rendezvous with a woman of dubious means. For me, prostitutes were to be avoided at all costs, but my sympathies were with the victims, who did not deserve to be killed in such a brutal fashion.
My first chore would be to contact Roderick by telegram at the office, though I knew what his response would be. One of, ‘Not that dreaded Ripper fellow again, leave me out of it.’
arrived home to a warm fire burning brightly in the drawing room. Cook waited for me with the evening menu as I had guests for dinner. A reluctant Roderick, Cyril and Eliza, Captain and Mrs. Braithwaite, and Mr. Fitzgerald, a learned gentleman who spent most of his life as a missionary in Africa. I did not invite Marianne, knowing full well she would have declined due to her theatre engagements. A shame as her company and beauty delighted everyone.
“Master, I thought the roast venison a good choice, with duchess potatoes and red
cabbage. But I’m all a pickle, shall I prepare onion or vegetable soup?” Cook always fussed like a mother hen about the menus, I had become accustomed.
“I will let you decide, Cook, and I do hope we’re going to be treated to your delicious apple pie.”
“Oh yes, master, it’s on the menu. Will that be all?”
“That’s all, Cook,” said I, wishing I could be a trite less formal with my household. But my staff would then think me rude and, if I were to confide in them my real identity, they would also consider me quite mad. I am a charlatan, adept at changing persona to suit every occasion, lying my way through people’s lives and only confiding in those I felt could be trusted. If I were instrumental in bringing Jack to justice I would not seek notoriety, preferring to slip into obscurity with question. I did not like to draw attention to myself.
I dallied in my new business, and it was interesting, but not enough to keep me satisfied. I craved excitement, the thrill of the hunt, the need for an edge. When the time was right, I would be making my way to America in the not too distant future, the house in Belgravia sold and my staff dismissed. I would simply turn my back and walk away, a familiar pattern to my sometimes torturous existence.
It was to be late afternoon when Roderick finally arrived, quite flushed, with a stack of papers needing my urgent signature.
“This invoice needs signing now.” He was short in his manner.
The problem eluded me; his agitation clearly visible in his body language was a concern. I needed to know, so I pushed him to tell me.
“I’m settled in Virginia and enjoy my travels to Washington. It was only on insistence from you that I endured a hellish boat journey to find myself left to push your papers around in a mundane office. Now you have the nerve to want to involve me in a wild goose chase in a part of London I can’t abide, and then take this evening, another dinner party, idle chatter with people I don’t like and your abominable ago!”
I was truly stung by his comment, but he was, in part, correct. I had, by my own admission, been carried clean away with all manner of material gains and delights. Marianne being one distraction I found so hard to ignore.
I made a commitment. Later in the evening when my guests had taken their leave I would sit down with Roderick and discuss the matter in hand - his troublesome feelings. In the meantime, we would eat, drink and be merry.
It was a fine meal indeed; Cook did us proud and her apple pie- a masterpiece. But I was itching to talk with Roderick and fought the urge to dismiss my guests early, a social mishap in these circles. They lingered after dinner drinks, cigars, talk of politics, the grand opening of the new Royal Court theatre. It was of no surprise that inevitably talk turned to Jack.
“Detective Inspector Reed has his hands full with this investigation and I read in The Times this morning that a new fellow, Donald Swanson, is heading up the investigation. If Scotland Yard fails to solve this case, no one can,” said Cyril, with a look of disdain, never one to give praise to Scotland Yard.
“I’m positive he will be caught, he’s bound to slip up at one point. I hear they’re going house to house questioning residents in the area and there’s even talk of a vigilante group going around the streets at night.” The Captain was clearly in a different frame of mind, although he did possess very moral views that would slip out with alarming regularity. “Of course, we could argue that the streets are better off without women of that nature.”
“I wholeheartedly agree, after all they are a disservice. Women of ill repute bring extra crime to the streets of London.” Mr. Fitzgerald surprised me, as a devout Christian and a missionary, I wrongly assumed he had compassion to those less fortunate than himself.
> The discussion continued, as I preferred to stay in the background and remain the gracious host not wanting to offend. But I breathed a sigh of relief when the last carriage appeared outside. With the house now empty, and the staff downstairs, I could get on with planning my agenda. I was, regardless of risk, prepared to take myself into the dark poverty stricken hole that had become Jack’s hunting ground.
There was always a possibility that I would come to harm. I had been, many times. Too many to mention. So far I have rejuvenated, often instantly or within minutes and long may it stay that way.
On the other hand if I was to be so unfortunate as to be cut wide open, there would be no telling if I survived. The last time my innards were attacked was right here in fourteenth century England. Far from pleasant and, a lucky escape. I preferred not to dwell on the experience; counting myself most fortunate not to have met such a grisly end.
The moment we were alone, Roderick thrust another invoice in my hand. “This must be signed also. The other thing Copper will make the dock delivery later tonight.” This was our young lad who delivered opium to the dens in Lime House. In return, I would pay him enough to live better than some. He was skilled at the job, keeping his head low and avoiding the authorities who tended to turn a blind eye. I supplied a small Chinese community who indulged regularly. It brought in a tidy sum, extra I could lock away free from taxes.
By day I sold opium imports to pharmaceutical companies for medicinal purposes, fortunate, there was little or no control on its distribution. I was free to sell it wherever there was a demand.
“I know you don’t approve of some of my practices. But I hope you can see that I do no harm. These people desire opium and I supply a good quality product. They are assured buying from me guarantees them a speedy delivery with minimum risk,” I said.
“Your justification does nothing to sway me from my view of this illegal practice, Manny.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that, my name is Emmanuel.”
“You have more name changes than I have hot dinners.”
“What I choose it to be is up to me, my friend. That’s the advantage of being immortal. I can dream up any identity and make as much wealth as I desire. Just as you can and do.”
“Thirty coins were never enough Judas. You have gone through every century desiring more and more. What does it say in the Bible? That the greedy man curses and spurns God. Have you forgotten? Where is your conscience?” he replied with great sarcasm.
“My dear friend, have you not noticed my trials and tribulations as I try to recover the coins? Hopefully in exchange for absolution?”
“When you bother to look. I’ve known you long enough to see you don’t take it seriously. Jesus begorrah!”
Our argument raged on. But he was correct on one point. What on earth was I thinking to be involved in the illegal sale of opium and revel in my obsession for increased wealth? Why had God not yet struck me down for my selfishness and greed? I was weak from the moment I stole the thirty pieces and, to this day, the abnormality clings to my being like a leech.
Eight coins recovered, eight alone. I must find the rest. I admit to having a penchant for fantasy. Imagining I were to stumble upon the remaining coins purely by chance. My lack of enthusiasm needed to change, forthwith
For my indifference to the sale of illegal opium I make no apology, it was too late, the damage already done. But I can exonerate myself a little by stopping Jack and, with good fortune, appease Roderick. I could offer no more to the proud Celtic immortal whose life ended and rejuvenated in a watery bog in Ireland long ago. How we met is another story.
“I expect you to make work of this hunt, Manny, and I’ll give you assistance. But I’m asking you, please do not expect me to wander the dirty streets of Whitechapel. The place is an abomination.”
“I promise not to press you to accompany me. I ask only for your support, nothing more.”
In spite of our occasional differences, I would lay my life down for Roderick, who suffered greatly with his sometimes hideous complexion. Due the length of time the poor chap was under water, he would, on a daily basis, mix any concoction, dirt or ashes from the fire to darken his deathly pale complexion. Upon knowing his true identity, and predicament, Marianne thoughtfully purchased the darkest face powder used by performers. It enabled Roderick to look as natural as possible with relative ease of application. ‘We don’t want to see a clown,’ Marianne remarked, making sure he applied the correct amount. The poor air quality of the east-end could easily affect his breathing, shallow at the best of times. No one, apart from me, was allowed to see Roderick without his darkened glasses. His blue eyes were tainted with specks of gold flickering constantly, giving the appearance of someone quite unnatural and possibly evil. They didn’t know him like I did. A strong and fearless man, the opposite of evil, but first impressions were imperative, hence the glasses.
“I expect Marianne will be calling round on her way from the theatre, she seems to always appear in the dead of night. Is there something you’re not telling me?” His mood lightened and his uncovered Irish eyes sparkled.
Roderick was insecure around her, finding her flighty and too humorous for a woman. Marianne was a new breed and he had little or no time for her outward personality, more used to the well brought up plantation girls of the South who knew their place. I also suspected a tinge of jealousy. “It has been perfectly respectable since the night we, well, I don’t have to divulge the details. Now we’re friends, nothing more.”
“Try to keep it that way. It’s better for you not to invite complications, if you can help it, and I suspect she would be one.”
If he only knew how I had to control my passion for the sleek contours of her perfect body and desire for me. Making love with Marianne was like walking in the garden of Gethsemane, west of Mount Olive, a paradise and place for lovers. I could not help but digress and remember I once walked there with more than one woman.
“I hear a carriage outside, I wager it’s her,” said Roderick, intruding on my memories. The doorbell rang and poor Edward could be heard scurrying up the stairs. It’s considered bad taste to answer my own door in these formal times.
“I expect that’s the lady in question, coming for her nightly sojourn, a glass of champagne and a plate of caviar. I will leave now and one last thing, try to use constraint as I fear you’ll weaken.”
“That will nothappen my friend. Your overreaction is misguided, it is only her company I desire. She’s such a delight to have around, like a breath of fresh summer air.”
As Marianne breezed in Roderick took his leave, both meeting at the door to the drawing room and somewhat uncomfortable in each other’s company. In spite of her assistance in the cosmetic department, he had little tolerance for what he called ‘her outspoken personality.’
“My dearest!” she cried out, barely acknowledging Roderick, “I’ve had a dreadful evening, simply dreadful.”
It did not irk me she appeared on my door almost every evening. Secretly I enjoyed it. “What happened?” I asked.
“That awful Clarence van Helsing was hovering by the stage door again. I have rebuffed him so many times. It appears he will not take no for an answer and makes for such a pitiful sight, standing there with a bouquet of roses and a forlorn look. What must a girl do with a man like that?”
“Tell him in no uncertain terms that your interests lie elsewhere. That should do it.”
“His excuse is he fears for my safety, perpetually informing me I could be at risk from the Ripper fellow. Nightly, I walk directly from the stage door to my carriage. Surely I can come to no harm within a few short steps?”
“Of course not, he is overreacting.”
Clarence van Helsing was a distant family member of the Royal Dutch court. Unfortunately, his reputation in London preceded him. He was, by nature, a procurer of women unable to curb his devotion to Marianne, much to her disdain. It would be an ill suited match had she been smitten. Clarence wa
s effectively banished from his country to save the embarrassment. Having impregnated a young housemaid, the scoundrel was now running loose in London with a generous allowance.
He lived on the fringes of the upper classes, neither fish nor fowl, shunned by most social circles and barely tolerated in others. Rumors hinted his strange, sometimes angry, behavior made him a possible suspect in the Ripper case. Marianne and I thought it laughable on account of the man being simply incapable. His ego and passion for the limelight would have him caught in no time.
“I expect you’d like some champagne.” I rang the bell for Edward to bring a bottle of Krug. He was accustomed to Marianne appearing at such a late hour and was relieved when the champagne was served. It meant his services were no longer required; he could retire for the night.
“Just what I needed my darling. Good company, fine champagne and do you have some of that divine Beluga caviar? I am ever so peckish.” Her mood brightened as we sat together, close to the fire, reveling in each other’s company. Throughout the long laborious centuries, I enjoyed my fair share of beautiful and exotic women, some more passionate than others. Women who enticed and, eventually, repulsed me. Women I loved and lost. Then there was Marianne, who possessed an intense curiosity of my past dalliances, sometimes an irritation.
“Tell me more about Aelia. The last conversation we had was cut short by time. I am intrigued by her and cannot stop myself from wanting to know more.”
Inadvertently, before our night together, I divulged to Marianne a few of my past encounters as she thought it strange I was never seen much in the company of women. I did not want her to think my passions leaned toward members of my own sex. A true scandal if gossip begun in earnest so, to defend myself, I told Marianne the story of Aelia Verina who I met in the year 484.
