Evelyn swept my hair away from the mess with one hand. When I was finished, she pulled me safely from the river’s edge. “What happened?” she probed. “What’s wrong?”
“That tree,” I gasped hoarsely. “It’s where my mother was murdered ten years ago.”
We didn’t go back to the party. Evelyn packed me into the car and jerkily drove us back to Whitechapel. She helped me into the shower and tucked me into bed. She made tea, set out crackers, and turned on the TV to distract me from the evening’s events. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said she was there to take care of me instead of the other way around. As the night came to a close, we watched another episode of The Great British Bake Off, but I couldn’t give my full attention to the spectacular cakes and pastries on screen.
“Oh, come on!” Evelyn shouted, gesturing at the screen. “She got first in the Technical. Why would you send her home?”
“I know you’ll hate me for saying this,” I told Evelyn, speaking for the first time since we’d left Windsor, “but I think I need to find out who killed my mother.”
Evelyn hit the pause button. I braced myself for her scolding. Then she said, “I thought you might say something like that tonight.”
“And?”
She turned her body toward me to make sure I knew I had her focus. “Jack, I saw what happened to you earlier tonight. Clearly, you’re still haunted by what happened to your mum. If this is what it takes for you to find closure, I’ll support you a hundred percent of the way.”
“But you hate when I get too interested in serial killers.”
Evelyn shrugged. “This is different. The case has been cold for ten years. I doubt you’ll be in much danger if you track the killer down now. The reason I don’t want you going after the Ripper is because it’s happening now. If the killer sniffs you out, they’ll take you down for sure, and then what am I supposed to do?” She lifted her injured arm as high as it would go, which was about two inches away from her chest. “Get a hook hand?”
My laugh was garbled with phlegm from the back of my throat. “I don’t think a hook hand would do much good for your shoulder. Basic anatomy, Ev.”
“All I’m saying is I’d rather you spend your free time coming to terms with your past,” she replied seriously. “Rather than avoiding all your problems and getting into trouble with the London police.”
“It’s all quiet on the Ripper front,” I said. “I guess I can drop it, especially if it means you’re talking to me again.”
“Glad to hear it.”
We settled into the pillows, and Evelyn pushed play on the baking show. I found myself enjoying it more, now that I’d made the decision to track my mother’s killer. I had purpose again, and it wasn’t meaningless. If I got to the bottom of all this, maybe I could finally move on. Maybe I could go back to school and study anthropology without the constant reminder that my mother was no longer here to help me through it. Maybe the future wouldn’t seem so dark and lonely anymore.
But I should have known better than to think things would be that easy.
8
On the morning of September 8th, 1888, the body of Annie Chapman was discovered at six a.m. in the backyard of 29 Hanbury Street, her abdomen cut open and her uterus removed. On September 8th, 2019, the body of Rosie Brigham was found in the carpark where 29 Hanbury Street used to be, with her abdomen cut open and her uterus removed. The Ripper had struck again.
“I forgot,” I lamented that morning as the TV played the news in the background. It wasn’t like the first time, when the Ripper story got a quick couple of minutes before the show moved on to the weather or traffic. Since six o’clock that morning, the news had featured nothing but coverage of the latest murder. “What with everything that happened last night, I completely forgot today’s date. Of course the Ripper’s been quiet for a week. He was waiting for the times to match up until he murdered someone else.”
Evelyn stood in front of the TV, blocking my view. “Remember what we talked about last night. Focus on your mother’s case. This Ripper stuff isn’t going to do you any good.”
“But this is perfect material for my blog,” I argued. “I haven’t posted anything good in weeks. I’m starting to lose subscribers. That means less people are viewing and clicking the advertisements on my site. That means I’m losing money.”
“I’ll pay you,” Evelyn offered hastily. “You came here to take care of me. I should be paying you anyway.”
“You picked up my plane ticket,” I reminded her. “And I don’t have to stay in a hotel. It would be weird to take your money. This is a favor to a friend.”
“One that’s disrupting your business and your life,” she argued. “Let me cover what you’re losing on your advertising.”
I considered it. On one hand, it would be nice not to worry about making up the funds whenever I returned to San Diego, but I didn’t like the idea of taking money from Evelyn. “Are you even getting paid? You’re not working.”
“I got injured on the job,” she said. “I’m getting a payout because of it.”
“Is that what you talked about the other day at your office? You never told me about it.”
She muted the TV and plopped on the couch. “I know you’re trying to change the subject, but if you must know, I did not get fired.”
“I didn’t think you would,” I said. “You’re their best employee.”
“Don’t butter me up,” she warned. “I can see right through it.”
“I was serious.”
Evelyn adjusted the collar of her brace. Later, she had another appointment with Alba, her physiotherapist, and Evelyn was dying to know if her shoulder was well enough to ditch the bulky plastic and Velcro straps that kept her arm in place. “My boss wants to keep me on, even if I don’t regain full use of my arm.” She pulled a face. “He said I could do desk work.”
“The horror,” I replied dryly. “At least you’ll know you have a job.”
She picked at the Velcro around her elbow. “It’s not what I pictured, you know? I always knew getting hurt was a possibility in this line of work, but I never thought it would happen to me.”
“Hey, it’s only been two weeks since it happened,” I said. “You’re making great progress. Stop acting like you won’t get back to it. Speaking of which, are you ready to go? We’re supposed to meet Alba soon, but I thought I’d treat you to lunch first.”
“Let me go get my shoes.” Glumly, she wandered off.
On TV, Chief Inspector Baker had appeared on the air, wearing his ever-present look of annoyance. I turned the volume back up.
“Inspector Baker!” someone shouted. “What else can you tell us about the recent murder?”
“Settle down, settle down,” the inspector called back. “I can tell you what I know. The victim was Rosie Brigham, a twenty-year-old teacher’s assistant in Lambeth. We have already notified the family, and we ask that you do not seek them out or bombard them with questions. Her family deserves the right to process their loss in peace.”
“Inspector, inspector!” yelled another journalist. “Can you comment on the location and the style of the murder with regards to the similarities to the original Ripper case?”
Baker noisily cleared his throat. “With William Lewis, we were prepared to label the details of his death as coincidence in connection with the Ripper. However, I’m afraid we can no longer take that chance. Rosie Brigham was discovered at 29 Hanbury Street. The cause of death was two slashes to her throat, which almost severed her neck. For those of you familiar with the Ripper, you know this is the same manner in which Annie Chapman was killed in 1888.” He grasped the edges of his podium and braced himself. “This is an official announcement from the London Police: there is a Ripper copycat killer in the streets. Do not go anywhere alone. Do not approach any past or potential crime scenes. Do not let your vigilance fade.”
Evelyn emerged from the bedroom, shoes on her feet but untied. “Can you help me—?”
I shushed her and pointed at the TV.
“It is not 1888,” Inspector Baker announced. “We are not Victorian detectives with no resources to assist in our investigation. We have technology they did not possess back then, and we will catch this killer. We will see to it that he faces the justice he deserves. Thank you.”
“I have good news for you,” Alba said at the end of Evelyn’s therapy appointment. “You can take a break from the brace every once in a while.”
“Yes!” Evelyn curled her fist in triumph.
“Every once in a while,” Alba repeated with exaggerated emphasis. She tested Evelyn’s range of motion. Her shoulder was still stiff, but Evelyn made it through the session with half her amount of usual wincing. “I don’t want you swinging your arm around like a monkey and hurting yourself again. If you can’t keep yourself in check, I’ll make you wear it all day again.”
“Noted,” Evelyn said.
Alba cast a skeptical eye over Evelyn as she turned to me. “Jack, I expect you to keep an eye on her. She’s not to be trusted. Don’t let her get ahead of herself.”
I saluted Alba. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve got it under control.”
“Great. Off you go then. See you in a few days.”
Outside the therapy clinic, Evelyn practically skipped down the street, unable to contain her joy. Alba had fitted her with a sling to keep her arm close to her body, but the development was a victory for Evelyn nonetheless. She swung the clunky brace around in her good hand. I half expected her to chuck it into the sewer so she’d never have to wear it again.
“Nandos?” she proposed cheerfully. “To celebrate?”
“You know I can’t resist peri-peri chicken.”
As we walked to the restaurant, I noticed something about the other people in the London streets: they were scared. Eyes darted this way and that. Everyone walked a little quicker than usual, especially those who were alone. Mothers and fathers pulled their children closer to their sides. The extra police wandering around didn’t help to dissolve the tension. Rather, they acted as a constant reminder that not all was well. A killer was on the loose, and no one knew when he would strike next.
“September 30th,” I told Evelyn as we shared garlic bread, coleslaw, fries, and a platter of spicy wings at Nandos. “That’s the next time the Ripper will strike. Twice. It’s the night of the Double Event. People should expect two people to die, unless the modern-day Ripper thinks the third murder wasn’t canonical—”
“I’m eating,” Evelyn announced through a mouthful of chicken. “Please contain your talk of murder.”
I chewed quietly and thoughtfully, watching through the window as folks hurried through the streets. Any one of them could be next. Inspector Baker’s morning speech may have been inspiring, but he didn’t outright say the police had any new leads.
“I wonder if they have CCTV footage of the new murder,” I mused. “They must, right?”
“You’re doing it again,” Evelyn warned. “You promised me you’d stay out of it, remember?”
My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but since it wasn’t labeled as spam, I wiped peri-peri sauce off my hands and answered it. “Hello?”
“Hello,” replied someone in a trembling voice. “I’m calling for Miss Jacqueline Frye?”
“Who is it?” Evelyn hissed. I held up a finger to hush her.
“This is she,” I answered into the phone. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Linda Lewis,” the woman replied. “We met a few days ago in the lobby of the Wagner building?”
“Ah, yes! How are you, Mrs. Lewis?”
Across the table, Evelyn threw a fry in the air out of frustration. She knew exactly who Mrs. Lewis was, and she definitely didn’t want me talking to her.
“Not well, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Lewis said. “Have you seen the news?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry. This must be a hard time for you.”
Mrs. Lewis took a deep breath. “The police are running me ragged. They keep dodging my questions, and they won’t tell me anything about my dear William’s death.”
“That’s terrible,” I said, gritting my teeth to control my tone as Evelyn kicked my shins beneath the table. I threw a chunk of garlic bread at her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” said Mrs. Lewis. “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. If the police won’t do their jobs, I have to take things into my own hands. I want you to look into my son’s death. I’ll pay whatever you want.”
“Let’s focus on William,” I told her. “We can discuss fees later. The important thing is finding out what happened to your son.” Evelyn pointed at me then drew a line across her throat with her index finger. I turned my chair away from her. “Would you be able to meet me today to talk? I’ll need to know everything you can tell me about your son.”
“Yes, would you like to come ’round my house this afternoon for tea?”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Excellent. I’ll send you the address and a time.”
When I hung up, Evelyn’s glare was so sharp that she could have sliced me in half with it. “That’s it, then?” she asked. “You’re completely disregarding our conversation from last night? I thought you were going to focus on your mother.”
“I can do both,” I insisted. Her glare deepened. “Mrs. Lewis is desperate. The police aren’t helping her. She wants someone else to look into it. What harm could it do?”
“Did you tell her you’re not actually a private investigator?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re not licensed!” she answered. “What you’re doing is illegal.”
A group of lads at the next table over glanced our way at the sound of Evelyn’s rising voice. I leaned over the table and muttered in a low tone, “I get that you’re worried about me, but this is bigger than my own safety. Mrs. Lewis needs help, and she asked me to give it to her. I couldn’t say no.”
“You could have,” Evelyn insisted. “The fact that you didn’t says all I need to know about how much you value my opinion on these matters.” She pushed her plate around and got to her feet. “I’m going home. Enjoy your afternoon tea.”
Though I grew weary of my hot and cold friendship with Evelyn, I went to Mrs. Lewis’s house anyway. She lived in Whitechapel, a few miles from the hospital where her son worked. The dwelling looked shabby from the outside. The peach door clashed with the tan bricks of the exterior, and the mail slot was so stuffed with letters and other junk that everything spilled out onto the concrete below. I tried to lift the knocker, but it was rusted in place. I rapped my knuckles against the door instead.
A half second later, Mrs. Lewis opened the door just wide enough to poke her nose out. She glanced left and right up the street before yanking me inside by the wrist. Potpourri and the thick smell of curry hit me like a truck as I stepped into the foyer.
“Afternoon,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t notice my eyes watering. I rubbed my wrist. For a small lady, she had enough strength to stretch it out of the socket.
She locked the door and peered through the window before pulling the curtain shut. “Sorry about that, love. You wouldn’t believe how many reporters and journalists I’ve seen milling around the house. I can’t leave without being bombarded by questions!” She let out a quavering sigh. “And none of them care about Willy at all.”
“What about your personal protection?” I asked. “I thought the Wagner Company was supplying you with guards.”
Mrs. Lewis sighed and rolled her eyes. “I told them to leave. They ruined my flower beds.”
“What can you tell me about William?” I asked, dawdling by the door. “I need to know anything and everything about the night he was attacked.”
“Come inside. Let me make you a cup of tea first.”
The house did not need any additional scents, but Mrs. Lewis brewed two mighty cups of Irish tea regardless. I held mine beneath my nose and
prayed the curry smell belonged to actual food and not Mrs. Lewis. I’d met my fair share of mourning mothers who had no strength left to take care of themselves, which was one of the reasons I was so passionate about my work. I knew what it was like to hit rock bottom because someone had been taken away from you. No one should have to feel like that.
We settled in the sitting room. The mantel was decorated with several framed pictures. Many of them featured a round-faced boy with pink cheeks. He seemed to favor wacky sweaters woven from mismatched yarn, and he never missed a chance to display his signature mischievous grin.
“That’s my boy,” Mrs. Lewis said, noticing my gaze. She drew a box of tissues toward her to have them at the ready. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” The pictures didn’t include many other people. Specifically, I didn’t see a father figure. “Was it just you and William?”
“Yes, his father left us when he was a wee lad,” she replied.
“Did William have any contact with him?”
“Once, when Willy was fifteen,” she said. “They met for lunch. My ex-husband promised he’d see Willy more often. Then he vanished again. Willy was heartbroken.”
I set my tea on the side table and leaned forward to focus on Mrs. Lewis. “Do you know where your ex-husband is now? Would he have any reason to hurt William?”
“It wasn’t him,” she said shortly. “He’s dead. I got official word of it two years ago.”
I mentally crossed William’s father off my list of suspects. “Tell me about William. Did he always want to go to med school?”
Mrs. Lewis laughed. “Heavens, no. I thought he’d be one of those lads stomping around London and causing trouble. After that meeting with his father, he straightened out his act and started focusing on his studies.”
A Buried Past Page 9
