by Aiden James
Life had gone back to where I left it, but there had been a fundamental change. The reality and genuineness of Whitechapel had no place in the dishonest, moralistic, judgmental and double standard world of upper class Victorian society. At first I embraced it, enjoyed the frivolities and fine company of beautiful women. Now I abhorred the shallowness of a family who judged Marianne so harshly. How a wonderful human was seen as little more than a harlot disgusted me.
Her company was a breath of fresh air, and it was a relief to tell her where I had really been. When all was told, she dabbed at her tearful eyes with a delicate handkerchief.
“Horrible, simply and utterly horrible. The poor wretched girl. And to think you wanted to help her, but a few hours later she was dead. My goodness, Emmanuel, you could have been killed, chopped to pieces by that monster!”
“It was not to be so please stop thinking about it. I am okay.”
“I shall miss you terribly when I’m married.”
“I will miss you, too, but you have a wonderful man and a new life ahead of you.”
“I know I will, I adore him,” she replied.
It was comforting to know she had the chance of a happy future, one that would diminish the memory of what could have been between us. The last thing I wanted was Marianne to be miserable because of me.
Next on my list was a last attempt to reconcile with Albert. Assuming it would take more than a full lunch and a glass of ale!
I found him in the inn, sitting in his usual spot, restored to full health with a newspaper tucked under his arm and an ear open for gossip.
“Pardon me, can I buy you another?” It was a genuine and honest offer.
“Oh no, I thought I’d seen the last of you!”
My appearance had not gone down well, but I was determined to win him round with a multitude of appeasements. He was, after all, a newspaper man first and foremost and easily swayed.
“How does a profound apology sound? I am prepared to go down on my knees and beg your forgiveness if that is what it would take.”
“What, no bribes? Where are the enticements of a lunch with fine brandy with an all expenses paid passage to New York thrown in for dessert?”
“I want you to know,” I said, “that I did my best and failed.”
There was no need to explain fully to Albert what happened. He was inattentive anyway, preferring to behave in a standoffish manner that was to be no deterrent in my stubbornness to win him over.
I told him briefly about Ratibor and I thought the killings would stop as I was sure he was on the train to Paris as we spoke.
“Then it’s time you moved on as well. I still cannot believe I was manipulated by you to steal because of my own desperate needs. Your work is done here, yes? Then it’s time for you to return from whence you came. The creature comforts of Belgravia.”
The cold hearted way he treated me, considering he willingly entered into an agreement to procure the files, was confusing. He had been paid handsomely. What was there to complain about? But then again, in hindsight, what good had come from my dastardly deed? The files, now buried in a graveyard, proved to be a worthless risk that served little use. I had done it again, neither one of us fared well from my reckless dishonesty, and I lost a good friend.
“What do you want, Emmanuel, the last supper? Go ahead, order food and drink that we can sit together and consume. Oh, I know, when all is eaten you can give me the kiss of death, as you did Jesus.”
His scathing comment was the last straw. I left in a hurry, with another lesson sharply learned. I should stop buying people off for personal gain.
ith all that had happened, I made the decision sometime in the following year I would return to America, much to Roderick’s delight. I also gave consideration to my household and, with much effort, secured employment for all my staff in what I considered to be an excellent arrangement. Through the Captain, I found a newly appointed Member of Parliament, a Mr. Richard Smyth his wife and two children, to lease the house for four years on the guarantee they retained every member of staff. They desired the location and were prepared to wait until I was ready to leave. Roderick had been fortunate to secure a skilled manager with excellent references to run the business until I decided what to do with it. We both agreed to keep the rooms in Hyde Park for now, subleasing them on the shortest term, in case Roderick decided on a visit.
Until Ratibor was caught, my witness statement would stay under lock and key. Knowing he was never to be caught meant I could depart England without worry of being asked to return, and leave such a sordid experience behind.
I heard Copper was charged and being held in remand, awaiting trial. There was little I could do. I did not dare to risk drawing attention to myself, it was imperative to stay silent. Harsh as I sounded, he knew what he was doing and for that he had paid a price. But, my guilty conscience did get the better of me when I sent three hundred pounds anonymously to his mother and siblings.
In order to celebrate Marianne and Robert’s engagement, I arranged to have a dinner party for all my friends and a reluctant Roderick. Cook had been in a fuss all day, but she did me proud by creating a veritable feast of delights. Marianne arrived arm in arm with Robert, followed by the Captain and Mrs. Braithwaite, Mr. Fitzgerald, Cyril and Eliza and my good neighbor, Mr. Simmons, who once lived in India on a plantation and had many tales to tell. Roderick was the last to arrive, for him an act of duty as always, but this time he was decidedly pleasant, with a few kind words for Marianne on her engagement. I, stupidly, drank too much Bordeaux, becoming pleasantly warm and slightly frivolous in my conversation.
The winter snow fell heavily outside, creating a picture postcard scene with the distinct sound of children’s laughter echoing close by. To my delight, as I peeked out of the window, many children had come out into the cold, early evening to merrily throw snowballs and build a snowman, whilst their nannies looked on and supervised. I smiled as the sight of them playing. It evoked a strong memory of Romania and the Carpathian Mountains. The year was 1241, I had the misfortune to arrive in the middle of an invasion by the Tatar, and Nomadic Turks who planned to take all of Europe. Every day, no matter the vast change to their world, children of the town would come out to play in the deep winter snow. It was the first time I had seen an ice substance as a source of entertainment and, reverting to boyish ways, I joined happily in their snowball fights. Now, centuries later, slightly inebriated, I wanted to dress up warm and go out to play.
“Would anyone care for a snowball fight?” I asked in a high tone of reverie.
I could see what they were thinking as each digested my request. That I had too much to drink and it was the wine talking. I was jesting and it was best to dismiss my childish behavior. But, Roderick and Marianne, it seemed, took me seriously.
“I will join you in a snowball fight, Manny,” replied Roderick with a boyish grin.
“Me too, it has been years since I have enjoyed such fun!” said Marianne.
Robert and the rest of the party looked on in astonishment, unsure whether to react.
Leaving them all to sit by the fire to discuss our uncongenial conduct, we rushed outside to make the biggest and best snowballs we could. It was thrilling as we laughed and chased each other, while the children watched us with amazement. The snow was coming down fast and it was not easy to gather the soft flakes, but we managed. I noticed that in spite of his enthusiasm, Roderick was not faring well under such conditions. His lips were turning a deep purple. We had forgotten his intolerance to extremes in weather and so had he, it seemed. “I will have to go back inside,” said he. “Carry on, enjoy yourselves.”
Marianne was seemingly not concerned she was alone with a man the moment Roderick walked back into the drawing room. To cover her reputation, I encouraged her to join me with the children who were building a snowman. We bribed them with the offer to donate Marianne’s ear muffs for the snowman’s head, for which they were most grateful, permitting us to join in.
“I hope we have not offended Robert. He seems to be a good sport but you can never tell. No matter what, I will defend your honor.”
“You are, without a doubt, the best friend a girl could have,” she replied softly. “Just think, one hundred years from now I will be dust in the ground and you will be exactly as you are. I wish sometimes I could live forever!”
I would not want this for Marianne in the grand scheme of things. My curse was not something to romanticize or naively believe to be an added bonus given to very few. One day in the future, I will receive news from her future children or grandchildren she passed peacefully away of old age. I would send a condolence letter and arrange for flowers to be sent, as I had done many times before. People had come and gone in my long existence and would continue to do so until my time of redemption. In the meantime, I would continue to stand by numerous graves, to say a final goodbye, wishing I, too, could begin the aging process. I had no desire to share such dark depressing news with Marianne; it would be selfish to spoil her happiness. I wanted her to always remember me with a smile.
As for the infamous Jack the Ripper, many would continue to come up with possible suspects analyzing what was left of the remaining files, attempting to identify the real killer. Time would pass and years from now, I will smile when I recall Scotland Yard’s prime suspect I found in a file marked ‘highly confidential, show to no-one.’ Aaron Kominski, set up by Ratibor, in a series of false leads fed to them in such a way to be believable- if only they had enough evidence. He had confessed this to me with much humor while I lay helpless in the coal.
“Emmanuel?” Marianne broke my thoughts.
“Pardon me, I was very far away.”
The snowman was complete, his carrot nose and muffled ears comical to the children as they were taken inside by their nannies. Now it was very improper to be alone.
I took Marianne’s gloved hand in mine, “Rest assured, my dear friend, no matter where I go I will not forget you,” said I as we stood together in the midst of an ever increasing snowfall.
“I will never forget you, Emmanuel, and I wish you only the greatest happiness, even though you are such a scoundrel!”
Fortunately, her reputation was still intact. Robert had been amused by our assistance in building the snowman and the rest of the evening was a resounding success. But, I did catch him looking at me a few times in a strange way. Did he know?
The next morning, as the snow lay thick on the ground, there was a loud knock on the door and moments later Edward came into the study with a strange request.
“Sir, there is a woman at the door. She insists on speaking to you personally. Due to her condition, I thought it best not to invite her in.”
“Condition, Edward?”
“Her attire, sir.”
“I will attend to it, Edward,” said I, wondering who it could be.
I was faced with the sight of an old woman, her shawl wrapped tightly around her face to protect her from the intense cold. The impoverished appearance told me she did not belong in Belgravia.
“I was asked to bring this note direct to you, sir,” she said in a thick Irish accent. “It was to be delivered personally.”
I took it and watched as she walked away, struggling to move through the thick snow, her footwear giving little protection. What was so important she was paid to come all this way, and who it was it from? In the privacy of my study I opened it with some reluctance.
‘To Judas Iscariot,
By the time you are reading this I will be on the train to Paris. My mission of mercy for the damned and fallen in Whitechapel is complete but not because you caught me in the act. I was, quite simply, bored. By the way, you are probably wondering why I did not chop off your head. It was more fun to keep you alive! Death is far too easy for the Jesus betrayer, it is much more preferable to leave you alive as to continue with your miserable search for coins.
The games I played with Scotland Yard, sending anonymous letters to throw them off the scent, naming suspects with hints of false evidence proves they are ineffectual idiot detectives without a clue of true investigation. It gives me great pleasure in knowing that years from now they will still be pointing fingers into thin air. Imbeciles and fools - no match for me.
I hope we never meet again, Judas, and that your immortality rages on and on.
I am sincerely yours,
The one and only, Jack the Ripper.’
I could do no more than angrily throw the damning letter into the drawer of my desk and lock it away. Wiping the perspiration from my forehead and unable to hold violent emotions at bay, I raged.
“How dare you taunt me like this? God will curse you, surely!” I muttered, vexed beyond comprehension. “One day, Ratibor, your time will come.”
I put on my overcoat and hat and stormed out of the house in an attempt to calm myself, better than to take revenge on my innocent staff or poor Roderick. The snow deepened considerably as I laboriously put one foot in front of the other in an attempt to make headway. But it was a battle, no longer able to tell what was road or pavement. I unceremoniously fell, landing painfully on my rear end. Luckily there was not a soul to be seen as they would have surely laughed at my clumsiness.
“What are you doing sitting in the snow like an eijit?” Roderick stood over me, shaking his head in wonderment.
“I was thinking,” I replied, “To take a train to Paris.”
“A glutton for punishment you are! Please push the notion out of your mind. Now, close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
I stayed where I was, deciding if it was going to be something of a game, who was I to argue? Something small and solid was placed in my palm.
“Manny, open your eyes… look!”
There was a small object glowing blue in my palm appearing to be some sort of coin. I held my breath, in shock and excitement. How did Roderick procure another one of my coins? Was it real, or just a parlor trick?
“It was in Ratibor’s bag under the rope. I took everything out ready to dispose of the contents in various places this morning and I noticed a glow in the bottom. I could not believe my eyes. The bastard had one of your coins all this time!”
“He is no longer protected by it Roderick, having used it to fester his evil ways and hide his true identity. Now he is without it. I pray for another immortal to cross his path and destroy him for once and for all.” I replied, still not believing I had secured a coin without searching.
“Maybe it’s a good idea for you to get up out of the snow and back in the warmth of the house. You don’t want to catch a chill.”
With Roderick’s help, I pulled myself up, clutching tightly onto my precious cargo, still reeling with surprise at what I had in my possession. There it was, coin number nine in my hand, but it had come at a cost. Mary and countless other victims paid a high price for it. My thoughts turned again to taking urgent leave to Paris. Would I find him powerless and desperate on the streets, ready to be annihilated for once and for all? I could take my own bag of tricks to do the dastardly deed. Roderick must have been reading my thoughts.
“Don’t even consider following him. Manny, I’ll say it for the umpteenth time, use your head.”
He was right, and Ratibor was wrong. I was not living a life of misery. I had been born to an extraordinary fate, one that was never dull and I still had much to learn! I held on tight to the coin as I followed in Roderick’s large snowy footsteps.
“Care for some brunch?” I offered.
“I thought you would never ask,” he replied. “And please, whatever you do, don’t drop it!”
It had been a very challenging experience, hunting down the Ripper and I’d hoped we’d seen the last of him. I did not possess the answers to life and the universe but, in spite of everything, I was thrilled to be alive and immortal, ready to resume my
search for the remaining coins and move forward into the next century. I would, always remember Whitechapel and Mary, certain the identity of Jack the Ripper would forever remain a mystery to the world, but then again I could be wrong.
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I began writing stories roughly fourteen years ago, after pursuing a career as a singer/songwriter in Denver and later in Nashville. My writing career could’ve been a brief one, as it started one night when it was my turn to read a bedtime story to my two young sons. Rather than read the ‘Mouse birthday book’ for the umpteenth time, I began a ramble about a mystical world parallel to our own, a world where sinister creatures sought to take a little boy into their hidden lair… forever.
My first critical reviews from my young audience were mixed. My youngest child, Tyler, was enthralled about the magical place I created, and eagerly awaited more. However, my oldest, Christopher, thought it was the dumbest tale he had ever heard! Luckily, my wife, Fiona, listened nearby. She thought the idea had potential, although she kept that fact a secret until the following spring, 1997. When she suggested I create a fuller blown version of this story, it marked the beginning of my love affair with writing stories.
I wish I could tell you that the experience has always been a glorious progression, where crafting characters, incredible landscapes with captivating plots, and surprising twists was easy. Far from it. It took nearly three years for me to complete my first novel–based on the bedtime story to my boys who by then were young teenagers—and another two years to decide if I liked it enough to show it to anyone else.
Since then, I have written fourteen more novels, and presently have five established book series out there, with a brand new sixth series set to start in the fall with Curiosity Quills Press. The first installment of this new series is entitled “The Serendipitous Curse of Solomon Brandt”, and will be a serialized project before it is released as a full book in early 2013. After this series, which explores the true nature of good and evil, who knows what will be on the menu next? Something dark and creepy… Or, perhaps something light and fun?
