Murder in Whitechapel (The Judas Reflections) by Aiden James, Michelle Wright Page A

deviating.”
    “It don’t come cheap and Rosie gets mad if yer don’t pay up. She’s got big Archie working for ‘er, he’ll beat the bloody stuffing out of yer.”
    I presumed big Archie was a henchman protector of the brothel, to be expected, since the murders owners became more cautious of their business.
    “I have the means to pay, and what exactly is your fee for taking me there?” Although it was difficult to negotiate with a child who should have been tucked up in his bed, I was left with little choice. Better him than an untrustworthy adult who might have attempted to rob me the moment we reached a darkened alley.
    “Tuppence is what I want.”
    “Then we have a deal. Now, take me to Rosie.”
    On the way, he informed me he was known as Nipper. I surmised that wasn’t his real name, and he resided in Whitechapel with an older gentleman. He was taken care of, along with a host of other young lads. I presumed it was one of numerous dens that operated in the area, procuring boys who would surely face a harsh life in an orphanage. Instead, they would be taught the art of pick pocketing in return for food and shelter. Nipper did not reveal the truth. Instead he spun a yarn, that he was eagerly waiting for his father, who promised to take him to Devon where his wealthy grandmother lived, to be released from prison. A sad fantasy indeed.
    “It’s down ‘ere and to the right.” He was walking faster than I could catch up and to my horror led me to Dorset Street, one of the roughest and most dangerous places in the area. It was teeming with ale houses and brothels. Drunkards being thrown out by angry innkeepers, landed unceremoniously by my feet as women walked past in search of clients.
    “’Allo, fine sir. Are ya looking for fun tonight?”
    “Please, I need money for me lodgings. I promise yer a good time.”
    “’Ere’s what you want, right ‘ere,” said one, lifting her skirt high enough to reveal the top of her stockings.
    Ignoring the suggestive remarks, I followed Nipper, unsure of what I was being led into. I walked by one prostitute after another, each wearing the signature low cut bodice to attract the men, garish red painted lips and overuse of face powder creating an almost clown like appearance. The sound of horse’s hooves came close to reveal a fine carriage pull up to the curb. The door opened for a pretty, fair haired girl who hitched up her skirt and climbed in without a care in the world.
    My heart skipped a beat. It was irresponsible of the girl after so many murders. Most of them had begun to work in pairs, too fearful to walk the streets alone, yet unable to give up a profession that meant the difference between living on the streets and having a room. It was a sorrowful sight to see, painful, upsetting and it forced me to think perhaps I was truly deepening in my compassion for others
    “’Ere we are, mate. Give us me money and I’ll be on me way.” Nipper had brought me to a small terrace house, the shabby curtains drawn but there was light inside. I handed him the money and he knocked firmly on the door before scuttling off into the night.
    “Yeah, who’s there?” a woman’s voice called from within.
    “Nipper brought me here, madam. I am looking for entertainment.”
    The door opened to a large built woman with a scandalously low cut red dress that did nothing to hide her curvaceous bosom. Her blackened hair, thick and wild, did not flatter and she eyed me with great suspicion.
    “Get in and close the bloody door behind yer, quickly!”
    I did as she requested, her sense of urgency justified. It would be very shameful for me to be caught by the police in a brothel. In spite of the risk, I followed her into the front parlor, a small and well kept room with red cushions and velvet drapery to match, a sign of erotica. The carpet was well-worn with holes and the damp ridden walls disguised with paintings of a risqué nature. I assumed this was to encourage customers to