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

unnerved by the sight of blood or gore.”
    He shuffled uneasily in his chair. “So, do you expect to accompany my officers?”
    “No, sir, I prefer to work alone.”
    “Are you serious? A gentleman of your standing wandering unaccompanied will stand out a mile in Whitechapel. It will make you vulnerable to attack or robbery.”
    “I will take my chances and I would appreciate it if you will let me see the reports.”
    “Are you quite mad?” he replied in bewilderment.
    “No, sir, I am, at the very least, determined.”
    “I am unable to let you see the reports, they are highly confidential. But I will ask for a young constable to take you to the crime scenes. There you will see for yourself the precise area where he has roamed and killed. Pardon me for not taking you seriously and I urge you, with respect, not to interfere in any way with our investigation. Doing so will result in consequences.”
    “Certainly, and I confess myself to be overly grateful to you Chief Inspector Swanson, overtly.”
    It was likely I over complemented the man as he said little more to me, instead directing me to the front desk where I was to wait for a willing constable to take me to Whitechapel. It proved to be a very long wait. I whiled away the time observing the comings and goings that were mostly mundane, as I told myself to be patient. I was being viewed as someone to be humored and, although a trite disappointed our meeting had been so fleeting, it was of no consequence what he thought of me.
    “Mr. Ortiz, I’m Constable Fletcher. Please, follow me.” A young constable appeared to take the role of escort, I considered him to be better than nothing.
    He walked me in direction of a familiar black police carriage that was to take me forthwith to Whitechapel with consternation. Throughout the journey I quizzed Constable Fletcher, who it appeared was most agreeable to a discussion. “It’s a pickle and a half, this case. He’s a slippery customer alright and he cuts them up good. I reckon he’s enjoying it, the mutilation and all.”
    “Do you not think this person has knowledge beyond the layman? His removal of organs, for example?”
    “I’d ‘eard that he could be a fancy surgeon or even a royal.”
    Our carriage ground to a halt by Duffield’s Yard, a narrow passageway just off Berner Street.
    It was here, on the thirtieth of September, that Elizabeth Stride’s body was discovered in the early hours. Due to lack of street cleaning, faint traces of blood remained on the pavement, reminding me just how severe the attack had been.
    “He slit the poor woman’s throat, nothing else,” the constable stated.
    “Perhaps he was interrupted? Which rendered him incapable of his intention to mutilate the body?”
    “Now, the worse is yet to come. I’ll take yer to Twenty Nine Hanbury Street. That’s where they found Annie Chapman on the eighth of September.”
    Our carriage took direction to Spitalfields, a borough that had once been home to some of England’s finest weavers. Now its decrepit, crime ridden streets were as dangerous at night as could be imagined. But this was late morning and the area was a bustle with people going about their business. The rag and bone man called out for any used items to sell, the coal man, his face black as soot and his hands worn down, delivered coal to those who could afford it. I observed, through the carriage window, the sights and sounds of the poor trying to make good another day, with no time to think on whether they were to survive or not. Diseases was rife in this area and most were deadly, forcing families to have many children in the hope at least some would survive beyond childhood.
    This used to be where Annie Chapman had plied her trade in the dead of night and was brutally slain with no witnesses. Scotland Yard remained unsure all the killings had been carried out by one man, even speculating it was a crazed woman seeking revenge for her husband’s involvement with a