by Aiden James
The morning light brought me little reprieve. I awoke with a sense of disappointment, but also acceptance. There was nothing I could have done to change what happened.
It was imperative I turned to the practicalities of my situation instead of brooding. I had to purchase a new overcoat and discard the blood stained one where it would not be discovered; the second time in as many days! Roderick and I also needed to discuss what to do with the bag of dangerous evidence.
I was hungry and weary, but, there were important matters to attend to. I needed to leave Whitechapel forthwith and return home, to my life. What else was there to do? Remain where I was in hope the killings stopped with Mary? That would be futile and unproductive. It was imperative I took a carriage to Belgravia before the morning was done, before I had time to reconsider and change my mind. Roderick decided to take the bag, leaving me with one thing on my mind. Home. I just wanted to go home.
The journey felt long and tedious as I pondered on how accustomed to life in the east-end I had become. The sights and particulars smells, not all agreeable of course, disappeared the moment I reached Belgravia. People were well dressed, houses clean, and the pavements swept daily. For the first time, I really noticed the only sign of sign of poverty in such an opulent area. The street hawkers who, every day, traveled to the nether world in the hope of a penny sale or two.
“Master Ortiz, it’s wonderful to have you home.” Edward had heard the carriage and come out to retrieve the luggage with a huge grin.
I had dropped Roderick home with the reassurance there would be no more late night forays, and a promise I was returning home with no diversions.
I walked up the steps, relieved to be back safe and sound. Cook would surely rustle up something delicious to feed my unstoppable obsession with her delights and I would tend to my somber mood with a well deserved nap. Edward commented on my new overcoat and jacket I bought in a shop on the Whitechapel Road. I purchased both in haste and found an ideal spot to dispose of the old ones with Roderick’s help. If someone had the misfortune to find them and suspected a terrible crime, we made sure nothing was left in the pockets that could incriminate me. Although gone the shortest time, it felt longer and the situation of a police visit in my absence was not mentioned. Edward knew his place and I had no desire to reveal any information. It would be swept neatly under the carpet, Victorian style.
I devoured a late lunch of Cook’s wonderful game pie with rhubarb and custard for dessert. Food never tasted so good!
Retiring to my bedchamber soon after, the discomfort of what happened slowly lessened.
Being immortal had advantages. I could tell myself there was always a chance Ratibor may cross my path again in the far distant future and not be as lucky. After a few hours sleep, I awoke with renewed vigor. It was time to catch up with the post and one telegram caught my attention. It was from Marianne, expressing her good wishes on my trip to York and she hoped I would contact her at my earliest convenience upon my return. The circumstances of what was happening with Mary’s remains stayed uppermost on my mind, I had no information on when the funeral was to take place or where she was to be buried. I hoped she would not be alone when laid to rest, that someone she knew, apart from the grave diggers, would be there to bid her farewell.
My first evening at home was not particularly memorable. After recent events it was to be quiet and mundane. Alone and rested, I sat by the fire and read, penned two letters and partook of a small port. Normality had returned!
The next morning Roderick arrived on the door, flushed and concerned.
“I have just come from the lodgings in Whitechapel. I had to go back to be sure we had not left anything, but I was too late. The landlady was most distressed when, upon cleaning the room, she discovered a torn, blood stained shirt tucked away under the bed. She was considering calling for a constable. I arrived in time to allay her fears, which I did by giving her a pathetic tale of heavy and uncontrollable nose bleeds. But, I could not for the life of me find a reason for the cuts in the fabric. I hope the five shillings I gave for her distress caused her to have amnesia and I have rushed here, Manny. I got as far away from there as possible and have disposed of the evidence.”
What I had not done was explain to him, in full, my evening spent with Mary, her gruesome murder, the fight and final moments with Ratibor before he arrived. We spoke very little to each other afterward. I was in no mood to talk and he respected that. Now I was ready to tell all. He remained attentive, quiet, and at times as I told my story, shocked.
“I am so glad you are home all in one piece - he could have finished you off. I don’t understand why he spared you. He looked to be a master with the cleaver,” said Roderick.
“I, myself, am at a loss to know why. We have to consider his drive to murder is primarily triggered by women. Perhaps that was the reason he didn’t take off my head or yours with a swift of hand and the sharpest axe!”
The hand of fate dictated I was still here and I slowly came to the realization that while I lay unconscious, there had been ample opportunity for Ratibor to permanently dismember me. My immortality brought to an end in a dirty coal shed. Was it a higher force, sent to save what was left of my soul in the form of my closest friend?
“Roderick, I respect your need to return to Virginia for the peace and quiet. But I would like it if you stayed until spring when the weather has improved. We also need to secure a good manager for your role.”
“Come with me, Manny… Belgravia is not your home.”
“Now is not a good moment to consider returning. Soon enough, my good man, soon enough.”
Roderick harbored a wish from the moment he arrived in England. All he wanted to do was return to America with me in tow. The suffocating Victorian morals did little to soothe his relaxed Irish ways that fitted so well in the new world. The fact women did not have to hide their ankles so as not to evoke wild passion in men irked him greatly, as did the rigid table manners and the formality of tea drinking. His impatience with people around him led to many bones of contention, causing undue stress to both of us. I, on the other hand, found it easier to settle wherever I landed. Once my reasons for being in London were no longer valid, I, too, would return posthaste to America. In the meantime, I could not relent on my obligation to the business and to my home. I started to think about the people who took care of me every day and wondered what would happen to them if I left. I was morally obligated to find alternative employment for each and every one. Edward would be snapped up quickly and Marianne, soon to be married, would desire a cook and housemaid.
If not, I would keep them on a small allowance, enough to get by until suitable employment was found. Having now seen a workhouse, I could not envisage any of them being there.
“I was thinking,” said I to Roderick, “that a change of career would be interesting. I do so enjoy reading and studying the world of antiquities and ancient artifacts. If I were to gain knowledge in these subjects to a high standard, opportunities may arise in certain places, museums and such like. I could use my finances to fund the research needed.”
“What then of your search for the coins? Will you to continue?”
“I have no choice but to carry on searching. In the meantime, I will live out my immortality the best that I can.”
The coins. To forget how imperative it was to retrieve them and lose sight of my goal would be disastrous. Now, I needed to consider my quest to be a more serious matter with no distractions!
Roderick and I never really discussed the deeper, more perplexing issues in life. Come to think of it, I never desired to with anyone. Could it be that I was undergoing a change through my experience?
“Do you think we immortals have souls? That when we die we will go to heaven, regardless of our reasons for being afflicted?” asked I.
“I would like to think so, but where exactly we go after this remains a mystery to me. There is one thing for sure, Manny, you’ve shown your soul to be good one. Mary would
be looking down on you right now saying exactly the same as I, you did your best.”
A compliment? Something rarely given by a man who never wore his heart on his sleeve, and quite frankly, neither did I. There was to be no time for hesitation concerning a sense of normality. First on my list was to voluntarily go to Scotland Yard and give a witness statement for the purpose of avoiding another visit. Secondly, I was determined to try and make peace with Albert. Lastly I had something very personal to do in Whitechapel.
Another telegram arrived from Marianne, asking if I had returned. In spite of her recent engagement, I missed her company, and wondered if she was prepared to cast propriety aside and call on me alone.
I had no intention of damaging her new reputation as a woman soon to be married. As a proper gentleman, I replied requesting the company of them both, for dinner, secretly hoping Marianne would come alone.
Life had resumed to normal, my household delighted and happy with my return. Edward had a spring in his step and cook fussed over forthcoming meals with a smile. I was blessed to have such a beautiful home and to be residing in London; a welcoming city where, I lived amongst trusting mortals for over three quarters of a century.
The newspapers were full of information concerning Mary’s murder, speculation mostly on it being Jack or a drunken sailor, while Scotland Yard was closed mouthed and gave little away. It became a farce when local Whitechapel man, John Pizer, was arrested because he made leather shoes. Detectives tied this to the leather man theory penned by a local newspaper. The poor man had been put through the mill, but had a strong alibi that subsequently allowed him to be released without charge. Now as I read the latest reportage, I took it with a grain of salt. The police had little to go on, apart from imagination, and fared no better when they sent detectives to numerous butchers and slaughterhouses on the advisement of Queen Victoria, who suggested the killer was most likely someone in the profession.
My visit to Scotland Yard was largely uneventful. Detective Dawson, newly assigned to the case, lost no time in telling me he knew well of me. I had become quite famous in the Yard - the strange gentlemen with a foreign name who claimed to be a private detective and a fearless hunter of fiends and murderers.
I gave the detective an honest account of the time I spent with Mary on her last evening and explained how I harbored a wish to assist her in having a new life. I also told of the description I had been given of Ratibor. There was no reaction; he continued to write everything down as if writing a daily journal.
“They are all sad cases, Mr. Ortiz. For each Mary there will be a dozen more and you can’t save them all, you know. Best advice I can give you right now is to go about your business and leave the detective work to the experts,” he stated in an arrogant tone.
Experts? So far they had failed to capture ‘Jack’ or police the streets of Whitechapel more thoroughly at night. Because of their egotistical exclusivity, deliberately keeping the newspapers at bay, they limited public knowledge and awareness. I refrained from bringing up Queen Victoria and her butchers. Instead, I dutifully signed my statement and was on my way, happy to wrap up my dealings with them for once and for all. I found ‘Jack’ when they failed to do so. I fought him and warned him to move on. They, on the other hand, remained at their desks, miffed and clueless. I wagered decades, or centuries from a now, a new breed of detectives would still be speculating. Who was Jack the Ripper?
“There is something very important that I have to do in Whitechapel,” I informed Roderick.
“Mother of God! Are you going back for more misery?”
“No, it is something extremely personal that I cannot dismiss.”
“If you were to ask me, Manny, I would say you are a glutton for punishment. What on earth is enticing you to return? The sooner you concentrate on other matters, the better.”
There was a definite irritation in his tone and manner; his eyes bore down as he pleaded for me to change my mind. I needed to allay his fears that were, in my mind, completely unfounded.
“I am taking a carriage to Whitechapel in the daylight. It is but an errand, nothing more, and I promise to return before dark.”
“Then I wish to come with you.”
“No, you must stay here. I have to be alone.”
He muttered something in Gaelic that I expected was a profanity. The only time he had power over me with words was when he spoke in his native tongue, mostly to anger and confuse. This time it had no effect, I was determined to be on my way, unhindered, to Whitechapel.
Through memory I walked in the direction of the shop where Mary had seen the red bonnet. I was unsure in the daylight, but with persistence, I found it. Under Victorian standards it was never appropriate for a man to enter female millinery but I was undeterred by formalities. Returning to the small shop on Whitechapel High Street served to recapture the sight of Mary’s face lighting up in awe of a bonnet she could only dream of owning. It brought a smile to my face.
As I entered the shop, an assistant approached with a startled look.
“Good afternoon, sir, what can I do for you?”
“I would like to purchase the red bonnet in the window, please madam,” I replied.
She dutifully retrieved the bonnet from the stand and, as she handed it to me for perusal, she seemed puzzled.
“I am concerned with the fitting, sir. Do you have a hat size for the lady in question?”
I denoted a French accent as she spoke, not a hint of cockney in her cultured tone.
“Alteration is not required, it will be fine as it is.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps you should bring the madam into the shop so we can make a proper fitting? This is one of the more expensive hats we have, surely she would like a perfect fit?”
“I will not be requiring a box. I wish to take it as it is,” I replied, dismissing her request.
“This is indeed a strange sale. The first time I have sold a hat without fitting or a hat box to keep it in!”
There was no right way to explain why I was taking the hat as it was. I paid, and clutching the hat tightly in my hand, returned to the carriage determined to see through what I planned to do.
“St Patrick’s cemetery, Leytonstone, please,” I requested.
I arrived to find, as with all of London, a thick winter frost covered the ground. It was not easy to find the mound of earth that was Mary’s grave. The cemetery was larger than I anticipated, but I persisted with an ice cold wind blowing hard. In spite of wearing gloves, my fingertips frozen, I eventually found the plot. With great sadness I read the obituary the day before in the newspaper dated November the nineteenth. It was a time before her body was released because of the autopsy. No one came forward to pay for the funeral, which resulted in her being buried in a pauper’s grave. A small wooden cross had been staked in the earth with her details roughly carved into it. The only testament she had ever existed.
My plan to dig a small hole with my hands and bury the hat had been thwarted by the frozen ground. I had no choice but to place it on top of the grave, in the vain hope it was not stolen.
“Here you are, Mary, the lovely red bonnet I promised to buy for you,” I told her.
With a heavy heart, I placed it gently on her grave.
“You will be the prettiest girl in heaven wearing that. The angels will be jealous.”
I bade her farewell and decided the least I could do was commission a proper headstone as an anonymous donor. With my time in Whitechapel over, it was imperative to return home and settle my affairs, but I was angry at seeing Mary lying cold in her grave, angry at my failure to save her. Damn you, Ratibor, damn you to hell! I called out into the silence of the cemetery.
In spite of my outrage, I had no regrets on meeting Mary, who had unknowingly taught me more than I had realized. In her own way, she had shown me that in spite of my immortality, I had to become the person I wanted to be, a better person and more readily accepting of my fate. I had made no judgments on her in the short tim
e we spent together and prepared to defend myself against anyone who thought our liaison scandalous.
In the past, I could never imagine spending time with a woman of Mary’s standing in life, yet I cared nothing of a reaction as we walked arm in arm and sat together on a park bench. The only crime she committed was to be lost in morality, no different than millions of others, except she was honest about it. Mary had, in effect, become my shining light and a way forward into the future. She would now be safe in one of God’s many mansions, where there would be no death, only light and love. As for my adversary Ratibor, I wished him a painful and slow end at the hand of someone much stronger than he. For as long as I remained immortal, I would live in hope to never to cross his evil path again nor hear of another mutilation murder in Whitechapel. I left the depressingly cold cemetery with gratitude. I was safe and free to pursue my future with a more positive outlook, in spite of what I still saw as a failure on my part. I knew, like so many other challenges in the past, I would, regardless of consequence, move on, but Mary Jane Kelly would not be forgotten. Less than one hour after my return, I was pleasantly lightened by the charming sight of Marianne, who unexpectedly came to call, alone.
“My dearest, Emmanuel, it’s delightful to see you after such a while. You look devastatingly handsome, as always!”
“And you, my dear sweet girl, as beautiful as ever,” I replied, taking her hand and kissing it lightly.
As a true and patient gentleman, I listened to her tales of the theatre and of Robert. She had, at first sight, despised his family, wealthy landowners from Sussex. Marianne was prepared to overlook what she saw as a slight interference on their part concerning the wedding arrangements, but they made it quite clear they deplored her work in the theatre.
“Not good enough for their son. The man is almost thirty-two years old and still unmarried. They must be grateful in the least I have taken him on and have grown to love him a little more,” she told with great compassion.
