by Aiden James
“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.”
&n
bsp; 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 was 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.
It was a passionate secret liaison that left me broken and consumed with regret…
“She was fair and beautiful, an Empress of the Byzantine Empire. Sultry, ambitious and dangerous are not words I would use lightly, but they applied. We had a sexual liaison for a while, mostly when her husband Leo the First was away at war. I knew I wasn’t the only one. Her bed was never cold.”
“She must have been a Roman femme fatale. How exciting.”
“In retrospect, she was an opportunist from a family of great wealth. There were three children, one not the son of Leo. She went below her station with someone who was not from a prominent family. To cut the story short, Leo earned the nickname ‘Butcher’ on account of his orders to assassinate anyone who got in his way. Instilling fear, he climbed to the role of Emperor very easily. Personally, I could not stand the man. He ruled with an iron fist and did not give Aelia what she needed, love and passion.”
“So what happened? Do tell!”
“We had delightfully wicked milk baths together while her handmaidens, sworn to secrecy, stayed in the background waiting for us to finish.”
“I did not mean that, Emmanuel. I meant what happened to her and how did it end between you?” she replied, a twinge of jealousy in her tone.
“Oh, I was rejected in favor of another, she simply tired of me. I heard that she’d died mysteriously in the siege of Papyrus. Leo had died years before of dysentery, Aelia quickly remarried, but her turbulent life continued. When the siege was over, they found her body. No one was ever sure how she had met her untimely end.”
“How sad and how fascinating. Her life would make a wonderful play, don’t you think?”
“I’d much prefer to put her out of my mind. The idea of watching her life being acted out on a stage nightly leaves me cold,” said I, shuddering at the thought.
Marianne’s visit did not end as auspiciously as it began. She began to slide closer to me and, in the flickering light of the slowly weakening fire, her eyes filled with wanton desire.
“My dearest friend, I am half inclined to consider that alone as we are, another moment of passion could be shared. But I must say no. I have to take a moral stand and not give in to my weaknesses. I have, by my own admission, enjoyed many pleasures of the flesh and the result has been nothing but emptiness,” I continued, knowing it would offend.
She sighed, her discontentment obvious, “I will go off and marry Robert Pratt, move to Cornwall and have many children!”
She was referring to a self-made businessman, who invested large sums of money in west-end plays. They met at a dinner party where Robert was smitten immediately. A short, dark haired figure of a man, a trite too serious for my liking, and madly in love with Marianne, worshipping the ground she walked on. He offered his hand in marriage on numerous occasions, yet she, up until now, adamantly refused his advances. I sensed he was beginning to wear her down.
“I do not see you settled in Cornwall, baking pies and a large brood of children scurrying around your feet. But you could do far worse than Robert.”
“I could marry you.” Her reply stunned me.
“I am, by my own admission, not in a good place as I am still uncomfortable with the responsibility of marriage. I cannot manage such an undertaking. Forgive me but I have to decline.”
“How many centuries do you need before you see yourself as suitable and prepared?”
“Sweet Marianne, I am unsure. Maybe love will find me in the next century or the one after. Who knows what the future holds and, what if my immortality was to end?”
“Oh, it’s those silly coins again, find the coins and you’ll have salvation.”
Marianne found it too trying when I wanted to discuss the coins. Often exclaiming the notion to be so far-fetched it made her want to laugh.
Occasions when she commented I was the most fascinating storyteller she had ever come across. Other times, she would tell me she believed I was Judas, contradictions I experienced many times with mortals who crossed my path.
“I will resume my search when the moment is right. You, Marianne, are already aware that my interests for the moment lie in business and investments.”
Our conversation became somewhat stilted, due to my rebuttal, which brought about a distinct change of mood.
“I must away. I am very tired and sleep awaits,” said she, her voice muted.
“I do consider you a wonderful friend and confidant,” I replied in earnest.
“I need more than what you offer, good sir!”
There was desperation in her voice, but nothing to be done to appease the situation. Involvement with Marianne would only lead to deep unhappiness for us. Before I embarked on a liaison that would lead to permanence, I needed to focus on my real purpose. To concentrate on my latest business venture, resume my search for coins and, with God’s assistance, catch the infamous Jack the Ripper.
nly on one or two occasions had I ventured through Whitechapel. From the security of my carriage, I had seen it was not a place to visit for leisure unless I desired a prostitute. Ale houses were stacked full of drunken men and women, with deadly diseases rife. The population increased due to a wave of immigrants from around the world and a swell of Jewish refugees fleeing the pogroms. Regrettably, the entire east end was shrouded in abject poverty and hardship, a reminder of past times I witnessed first hand; human beings suffering in great hardship. It would have been easy to walk away and stay in the safe confines of Belgravia, but I had no choice except to see it through. As Roderick stated - to do my moral duty.
With Marianne gone, I retired to my bedchamber where I spared no expense on a wonderful mahogany four poster bed complete with silken sheets and the finest quality blankets. The fire was burning brightly; I stared into the flames thinking about my gift for unintentionally causing unhappiness, perfect moment to berate myself. Day to night was a marked contrast. I could busy myself from morning till late eve
ning but night was another story. Often, alone in my bed, thoughts intruded and memories flooded back. I did not sleep very much, sometimes not at all, and on this particular night it eluded me. Marianne, Roderick and how I was to go about finding Jack weighed heavily on my mind as did my guilt of the past and present.
I was, by my own wayward decisions, already predestined to be damned long before I became immortal. As I walked beside Jesus, I was to be the betrayer, long before I sold his soul for a mere thirty shekels. There would be no taking into account the dire consequences, instead driven by greed, I took the wrong road. By today’s standards those shekels would be a healthy sum, but they were to become my downfall.
Memories taunted me. The Gospel of Barnabas, a medieval document, claimed with certainty it was I, not Jesus, crucified on the cross. The story is a fantastical work of fiction, one I have chosen to ignore, along with countless other theoretical assumptions. I did not take kindly to scholars profiting from my life and that of Jesus, particularly when all they did was surmise. Of course, I am prevented from coming forward to challenge and refute the claims. I would probably be put in chains and locked up in the madhouse, not something I’d relish. These reoccurring thoughts plagued my sleep on a regular basis and at dawn, after less than two hours of slumber, I awoke to the knowledge today would be the day I make my way to Scotland Yard with a good story to credit myself and a plan. Yes, a plan!
Over a hearty breakfast of bacon, poached eggs and black pudding, I was interrupted by Edward with the morning post. There was nothing to pay attention to or divert me from the journey to Whitehall. So far the morning was going well and, as I climbed into the carriage, I thought long and hard on what I would say. That I was a private investigator trained in New York under the wing of one Bernard Flowers, a gentleman with a fine reputation. I was skilled enough to offer my services, I had much free time on my hands and the funds needed to gather information. Bernie did indeed exist. Apart from the fact his true profession, a importer of the finest cigars to the residents of the new wealthy of Manhattan, there was partial truth in my story. If they were to contact him, he would inform them I was indeed who I said I was, being a good sport and a lover of intrigue. I arrived at Scotland Yard full of confidence they were naive enough to believe my concocted story. Being able to convince mortals of my numerous identities had become a finely practiced art, taking great care never to give anything away in my body language. With my head held high, I entered the tall, imposing building in the hope of speaking with Chief Inspector Donald Swanson, now leading the investigation.
