Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 evening 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