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

inconvenience.”
    “I’ll ‘ave you there in a jiffy,” he replied jovially and no more was said about Jack as we made our way. I was certain Albert would be there, ensconced in discussion with his fellow newspaper men. The table full of beer mugs as they exchanged information discussed deadlines and quarreled. Jack the Ripper had become a boiling hot potato and every pressman in the country vying for an exclusive front page story. Their days were spent commuting between Whitechapel, Scotland Yard, Fleet Street, a variety of Inns and the office. Each new murder brought more tension as the quest for answers heightened.
    “’Ere you are, sir,” said the most agreeable young constable as the carriage drew up to the Inn.
    “I wish to express my immense gratitude for the guided tour, Constable Fletcher. I urge you to take care and best of luck for the future.”
    “That’s a funny thing to say. Like I’m gonna lose me job or something bad’s gonna ‘appen?”
    “Please excuse me, I see in hindsight it was an inappropriate comment to make.”
    When he was gone, I thought about my remark and concluded I was, in all intents and purposes, talking about myself. Judas Iscariot wishing himself luck and care in an unknown elongated future. How pitiful I must appear to those who knew the truth. At times I confessed to feeling out of place in such a stiff, repressed society, even though I enjoyed the trappings. The only appropriate thing for me to do to rectify the situation was to drown my sorrows with good ale and, hope Albert would make an appearance by midday. The Inn was not as full as I had expected, making it pleasant to settle in a cozy corner with a half pint of good brew and a plate of freshly caught whitebait. I adored the small tasty fish netted daily in the River Thames, dipped in flour and deep fried. I could get used to this, being a gentleman of leisure who did very little except indulge. In part I had done just that, but my lingering thoughts of not to have a moment’s regret for being here was concluded by my reason for being in the Inn. I had a very important request for Alfred and, after consuming two halves of ale, I prepared to win him over with a hearty lunch, plenty of ale and a cigar of his choice.
    As my luck would have it, less than three quarters of an hour later, he arrived looking quite dapper. “Albert, your new hat does you justice,” I casually remarked.
    “It cost three days of my wage, but I needed it. Have you eaten?” He was sharp enough to notice my empty plate.
    “It was a small entrée, a portion of whitebait. Shall we order some lunch?”
    “I thought you would never ask!”
    I met Albert through a mutual contact soon after I purchased the house in Belgravia. Having sold a property in Regents Park, I was short a footman and needed to place advertisements in The Times. As a way to make extra money, Albert, for a small percentage paid by the newspaper, was the person who sold print space. Our initial contact five years previously was interesting; I found his immaturity extremely annoying, yet his ambition to be more than a salesman, admirable.
    For all intents and purposes he had, without formal training, become a newspaper man. Over the years he developed quite a nasty habit. Pushing me for snippets of information on people I was acquainted with. To appease him, I would feed useless pieces of information leading nowhere, but he never gave up trying to dish the dirt on those of stature. When I mentioned my interested in the Ripper case, he was filled with suspicion. I was certain he saw me as yet another curiosity seeking do gooder and I was at a loss to tell him the truth after such a long period of knowing each other. It took a large ingestion of alcohol to confess my true identity that at first he perceived only as a joke.
    Albert was not always in good health. He smoked too much and drank far too regularly, seemingly prone to coughs and colds by each winter. In spite of his