Destiny of Coins (26 page)

The Ripper case gave newsmen enough fodder to keep going for months. But Albert was never satisfied, hungering for more information, not caring how it came his way as he nosed around. He had the makings of an ideal policeman, if he decided to give up putting pen to paper.

I, too, considered myself to be skilled in detection, but was I truly capable of catching such a slippery devil? Having endured many challenges through the centuries far worse, I was not prepared to give up, if I could get my mind to focus.

“This Jack character is giving Scotland Yard a run for its money. He’s devious and tricky. Emmanuel, you must take your surveillance talk and do something with it, in the thick of the streets of Whitechapel,” said Albert.

“I can only do what I’m capable of, my dear friend. Surely you must know even Judas is not invincible.”

“But you have a distinct advantage over the rest of us. If you have the misfortune to be harmed you heal in a matter of minutes.”

“Not quite. If I have the misfortune to suffer an extreme attack, it can be fatal. I am not indestructible, and I wager you would enjoy it immensely if I were to be the sacrificial lamb for the greatest scoop of your career.”

“I don’t wish you dead silly man, only triumphant. I doubt you would shout it to the world. Being said with honesty, you would do your best, lambs discounted!”

If I were to fail, would Albert hold me responsible? I had the impression he underestimated Jack, a force to be reckoned with, as a simple catch once identified.

“He’s deadly. We must never underestimate him. That includes you,” I warned.

I often wondered if Albert actually believed I was immortal. I inadvertently confessed one night when full of ale and bravado. Alcohol put me in a drunken state very quickly if I consumed more than I should have. I surmised it was my immortal status. Albert, on the other hand, was a bottomless pit. For every ale I drank, he drank double and twice as quickly. But we reached a mutual understanding. He was never sure if I was really Judas drifting through the centuries. I, in turn, tolerated his heavy drinking and increasing opportunistic ways to get me to pay for his vices.

“I will speak with Roderick. It would be better not to go alone, if I can get his mind off the fog and cold.”

“I was hoping that we’d avoid Roderick Cooley,” he replied with a grimace. Albert did not take to him upon introduction, his first impression one of horror. I understood. The sight of Roderick wearing hand crafted, dark glasses to disguise his strange eyes is unnerving.

Albert is often cocky and arrogant. Roderick will not suffer fools gladly, making his opinion known. The tension recently lessened and it looked as if they found a degree of tolerance. I have yet to see what happens when both are full of ale.

Roderick joined me in London on my insistence and persuasion. I encouraged him away from his fine Virginian plantation, where he settled in 1663, to oblige me in new ventures.  There was a time when we were neighbors, until a wealthy land holder made an offer on my property I could not refuse. I returned to Europe soon after to see many changes. Tea and coffee had become popular and the women more beautiful than I remembered.

Roderick was a dark Irish horse, and, under an assumed name, had signed the Declaration of Independence. He was also an instigator in the bill to move the nation’s capital from Philadelphia to Washington, DC. A keen property investor, he purchased a townhouse in the new capital and, like me, acquired a sophisticated and elegant apartment in the new Manhattan. Although I traveled the world and spent most of my time in London, I took return passage to America on occasion. It was an irony while on a visit, news reached me there was money to be made in the hub of London.
Imports.
How could I turn down such a marvelous opportunity?

It was a twist of fate, the recent spate of murders in London’s Whitechapel. The name alone, Jack the Ripper, coincided in need for something else. I told myself it was possible 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, Roderick reluctantly agree to leave home for the shortest time and take the journey to England. With a keen eye for business, I quickly made him a partner in the vain hope it would distract him from his frustration. 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 blended 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.

In the meantime, I followed the Ripper case closely, devouring every newspaper I could lay hands on, staying in contact with Albert.

But it was proving very complicated, 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, the formalities of the Victorian stiff upper class, and to speak Gaelic at every inappropriate moment.

I reminded him constantly my friends and associates were unimpressed. 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 for 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. 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 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 swelled 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 disintegrated, crime rife, robbery commonplace, and roughly distilled gin consumed like water. The deprivation brought an alarming increase in prostitution, and the current murders only added to the label of riddled with vice and danger. Few outsiders ventured to the area. Rumors circulated about men of high social standing, and members of royalty, slipping in and out of Whitechapel for a quick rendezvous with women 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 his response. One of, ‘Not that dreaded Ripper fellow again,
leave
me out of it.’

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The Judas Reflections: Murder in Whitechapel
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~~~~~~~~

Abo
ut the Author

Aiden James resides in Tennessee with his lovely wife, Fiona, their two sons, Christopher and Tyler, and a feisty terrier named Gypsy. An avid researcher of all things paranormal, he still spends time visiting haunted locales throughout the Deep South. Please visit his website:
http://www.aidenjamesfiction.com