A Buried Past

by Alexandria Clarke

  “What about his schedule?” I inquired. “Did he always walk to the hospital so early in the morning?”

  “Yes, it was required of him to get there near dawn.” Her eyes shone with brimming tears. “I shouldn’t have let him walk. If I’d driven him—”

  “Mrs. Lewis, the hospital is mere blocks away,” I reminded her gently. “It made sense for William to walk. Don’t blame yourself for this.” As she pulled the first tissue from the box and dabbed her cheeks, I took out a small notepad and pen. “Did you notice anything odd about William before he left the house that morning or perhaps the night before? Did he seem agitated or scared at all?”

  “Not a bit,” she answered, her voice thick. “He was excited for the day. They were learning something new, but God help me, I can’t remember these medical terms. He was late leaving the house—”

  “How late?”

  “Twenty minutes or so.” Mrs. Lewis watched as I scribbled the details in my notepad. “Does that matter in your investigation?”

  “It’s good to note deviations in a victim’s schedule,” I explained. “Sometimes, it can bring to light something unknown about a case.”

  She chuckled lightly. “I’m afraid it was no deviation. William was almost always late. If he showed up on time, I would drop dead.” Her lip wobbled as she realized what she had said.

  “Were you given his things?” I said quickly to head off her next wave of emotion. “After he was found?”

  “They kept everything for evidence. Except this.” She reached into the drawer of a side table and took out a small faded picture of a wizened bulldog. “Dudley was William’s best friend. They grew up together. He died right before William got into med school. Willy was devastated. He kept that picture in his breast pocket every day.”

  I examined the photo. Dudley was a handsome boy, but he wasn’t much of a clue about who might have struck William down that night. That was probably why the police had released the photo to Mrs. Lewis. I flipped the picture over. On the back was a smear of dirt with the hint of a fingerprint etched into it.

  “Can I keep this?” I asked Mrs. Lewis.

  Her lip quivered again. “As long as I can have it back when you’re done with it.”

  “Absolutely.” I pocketed the photo. “Let’s move on.”

  After I spent a solid three hours with Mrs. Lewis, the sky began to darken. Purple clouds cast a lilac-gray shadow across Whitechapel, threatening to burst at any moment. All alone, I tugged my coat tighter around my body and hurried through the streets. Fear crept beneath my skin and laid eggs there. It was the first time I’d walked through Whitechapel without Evelyn’s hulking form beside me. I hadn’t realized how much I relied on her for the comfort of safety.

  The police were on every corner, watching for signs of the Ripper, but they were scared too. They shuffled their feet and swung their batons. There were no squared shoulders, strong jaws, or reassuring voices. Like everyone else, they wanted to go home to the safety of locked doors.

  The walk back to Evelyn’s flat felt longer than normal, especially with rain and fright dropping cold reminders on the back of my neck. As I crossed a street, a shadow darted across an alleyway. I froze mid-step, one foot on the curb and the other still in the road. My throat locked up. I barely breathed.

  A homeless woman appeared from the alleyway, pushing a buggy full of old blankets and random bits and bobs she’d picked up in her travels. A shabby gray cat perched on the handles as the woman lurched toward me.

  “Spare a few quid, darling?” she asked hoarsely. She had lost several teeth, and her gray hair was matted to her scalp. “I need to eat.”

  The cat hopped off the buggy and wound around my ankles. Evelyn had warned me of scammers in the city that asked for a few coins and ended up nicking your entire wallet while you were distracted. I clasped my hand to my back pocket, where my phone and wallet resided, and handed over the change I had from lunch.

  The woman gave me a gummy smile. “Cheers, lass. Watch your step, eh? Never know what could be lurking in the streets o’ Whitechapel.”

  As if I needed the reminder. I watched until the woman finished crossed the street. Her cat sat at my feet and peered up at me with inquisitive green eyes.

  “She’s leaving without you,” I said to it. “Better get going.”

  It remained where it was, studying me.

  “Shoo!”

  No dice. I turned from the cat. As soon as I stepped away, it darted across the street to follow the woman, narrowly avoiding the wheels of a passing car. Thoroughly creeped out, I quickened my pace.

  The streetlights popped on, illuminating small circles of the road. I ran from one bright patch to the next, as if the darkness sapped my strength and my body fed on artificial light. At my rapid pace, I didn’t notice a sign on the sidewalk until my toe caught the edge of it. I stumbled, and the sign went flying, landing flat with a loud bang.

  “Oi!” roared someone from inside the adjacent building. “If I catch you little shits trying to steal my sign again—!”

  Bertha, the guide from our Ripper walking tour, burst into the street. She glared around, looking for the potential vandals. When she saw me grasping my injured toe, her expression relaxed.

  “I remember you,” she said. “Jack, was it?”

  “That’s me.” I accepted her hand to help me up, and she launched me to my feet. I helped her pick up the sign. “Sorry about your sign,” I said. “I was walking too quickly, and it’s so dark out here that I didn’t see it.”

  “As long as you don’t run off with it, I won’t blame you,” said Bertha. She looked me over from head to toe. “Everything all right? You seem a bit out of sorts.”

  “It’s all this Ripper stuff,” I admitted. “I’m not usually afraid to walk by myself, but it’s different with a killer on the loose. I’m small. Easy target, you know?”

  “You’re not the only one,” Bertha said. “The whole city is terrified. Would you like to come in for a minute? Shake off the nerves?”

  Gratefully, I went inside with her. The Ripper Tour gift shop was bereft of tourists and shoppers. “Are you closed for the night?” I asked Bertha.

  “Nope,” she replied, sitting on a high stool behind the counter. “Everyone’s too scared to be out tonight, and they certainly don’t want to take a Ripper tour. Don’t worry. Business will pick up as the fear wears off and the adrenaline kicks in.”

  I leaned against one of the display tables. “You know more about the Ripper than anyone else, right?”

  Bertha shrugged. “I suppose I have to. I’ve been doing these tours for ten years. People ask a lot of questions. If you can’t answer them, they go on the website and leave bad reviews. Why do you ask? I thought you were a bit of a Ripper expert yourself.”

  “I know everything about the murders in 1888,” I said, “but I haven’t lived in present-day Whitechapel as long as you have. You know this neighborhood and its goings-on better than I do.”

  “That’s true. What are you getting at?”

  I hesitated, unsure of whether Bertha would approve of my snooping. “I’ve been investigating the murders myself. I know that sounds crazy,” I added, seeing one of Bertha’s eyebrows rise. “But I wanted to take a crack at it.”

  Bertha interlaced her fingers and stretched her arms over her head. Several loud pops permeated the air as her spine realigned itself. “It doesn’t sound crazy. I’m sure you’re not the only one trying to figure out what’s happening. We don’t have a choice, considering the police are bumbling around like idiots.”

  I hadn’t seen the news since that morning. “No new leads?”

  “Not a one,” Bertha answered. “They keep saying shite to make us think they know what they’re doing, but how are we supposed to trust them when they lost the CCTV footage again?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? No footage?”

  “They’re lying about something,” she insisted. “I’ve walked these str
eets hundreds of times. I’ve seen the cameras around both murder locations. It’d be damn near impossible not to catch the killer on tape twice.”

  “The cameras were pointing right at the spot where William died,” I told her. “I checked them myself.”

  Bertha pushed herself off her stool. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the cameras on Hanbury Street myself. You up for it?”

  “Up for what?”

  “Let’s take a peek at the new crime scene.”

  9

  Bertha exuded a similar energy to Evelyn’s. They were both larger women with attitudes to match, and though I didn’t know Bertha half as well, I felt safe with her in the streets. This was her domain, and she made sure everyone knew it. Her hands swung confidently at her sides, and if anyone—a shady grifter or a group of rowdy lads on their way to a pub—glanced at her for a moment too long, she lifted her lip and bared her teeth like an overprotective Doberman. However, she was friendly toward people she knew, which turned out to be a large percentage of the Whitechapel population.

  “Hiya, Fred,” she said to a man sitting beneath a shop window. He appeared to be in his fifties, but I had a hunch he was much younger underneath his scraggly facial hair. Bertha flipped a coin into the paper cup in his hand. “How ya holding up?”

  “One day at a time,” Fred croaked. “Need another favor?”

  “Maybe in a few months. Wouldn’t want to get you killed.”

  Fred winked. “Good point. Cheers, B.”

  “What was that all about?” I asked as we continued on our way.

  “I used to employ Fred every once in a while to dress up in Victorian garb and creep behind the group during the tour as if the Ripper was following us,” she said. “It was a good bit of fun, but if he did it now, I’m afraid someone would get scared and attack him. Greta, how are you?”

  We stopped again, this time to chat with a woman selling magazines from a small stand. Bertha made Greta promise she wouldn’t stay out too late. One block later, Bertha waved to a group of elderly women knitting on someone’s front stoop. Not long after that, she checked in with a young man who worked at a corner store. She bought a pack of bubblegum, handed the kid twenty pounds, and told him to keep the change.

  “Do you know everyone?” I asked her as we neared Hanbury Street.

  “Nearly,” she replied. “When you’re out and about as much as I am, you make a lot of friends. Quick left here.”

  We turned the corner, and police lights blinded us instantly. The car park at 29 Hanbury Street was completely blocked off. Police swarmed the streets, directing cars and people away from the area. Bertha and I watched from a safe distance.

  “We’ll be lucky enough to get within fifty feet,” I muttered. “They’ll notice us for sure.”

  “Not if we give ’em a good enough distraction.” Bertha grinned at me. “What do you say? I’ll make a scene while you run in and check the place out.”

  “You want me to go inside?”

  “You’re smaller. No one will notice you. Me, on the other hand—” She gestured to her height and girth. “They’d definitely catch. Are you in?”

  I scanned the scene and saw at least fifteen cops in and around the car park. “I don’t know…”

  “You wanted information, right?” Bertha said. “This is how you get it.”

  All I could see in my head was Evelyn’s look of disapproval. The last time I’d messed around at an active crime scene, I was arrested for interfering with the investigation. If Evelyn had to bail me out of jail tonight, she would likely never speak to me again.

  A police car pulled away from the curb. The cops gathered their things. It looked like they were getting ready to leave.

  “They’re switching shifts,” Bertha noted. “That’s lucky. Best time to sneak in would be right now. What’s it going to be, Jack?”

  I caught a glimpse into the car park. Was that a splotch of dried blood or an oil stain on the concrete? Curiosity had always been my greatest weakness.

  “I’m in,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

  “See that door over there?” She pointed toward the back end of the car park, where only one officer guarded the building. “Go in through there. Less people with notice you, but wait for me to draw the guard away first. Code word is ‘distraught.’”

  “Wait, what?”

  “The code word,” she repeated. “If I see someone heading toward you, I’ll work the word ‘distraught’ into my conversation. Clear?”

  I nodded. “Got it.”

  Without another word, she jogged toward the police officers. Once she was close enough, four of them converged on her at once.

  “You don’t understand!” she howled. “My cat got out, and he ran this way, and I saw him go into the car park. If I could check for him—”

  The officer closest to her had to crane his neck to meet her gaze. “My apologies, miss, but this is an active crime scene. No one goes in or out. It could contaminate our evidence.”

  Bertha’s voice grew higher and louder, drawing the attention of more officers, including the one standing guard at the car park’s back entrance. “But Pookie isn’t an outdoor cat! He’s probably terrified. Please, sir.”

  “Miss, I’m sorry about your cat, but I need you to step away.”

  Bertha took a step forward instead. “What if he gets run over by a car? He’s the only family I have left!”

  She burst out crying, real tears streaming down her face. She rested her head against the officer’s shoulder, leaning down at least two feet to reach him. He awkwardly patted her back and looked around for someone’s help, panic building in his eyes. The others closest to him hid guffaws behind their gloves.

  “There, there,” the officer said to Bertha. “I’m sure your cat will turn up.”

  Bertha let out an anguished howl. The guard near the back door headed toward the street to check out the commotion. This was my chance. I darted from my hiding spot and sprinted into the building through the unmonitored door. I was inside. Step one complete.

  Step two: check the cameras. That was easy enough. They were positioned in every corner of the car park, covering every possible angle. The police absolutely should have had footage of the killer and his victim.

  Step three: examine the crime scene. This was a bit harder. The blood splotch was halfway across the lot, and the car park was annoyingly well lit with bright fluorescent tubes. If a police officer glanced inside, they would spot me instantly. It was a chance I was willing to take.

  I peeked outside to make sure the officers were still distracted. Bertha’s act was so good that she had drawn the attention of the entire squad. With silent thanks to her, I crouched down and ran across the garage to the exact spot where Rosie Brigham had been killed that morning.

  A chill raised goose bumps on my arms as I saw the extent of the bloodstain. It started at the foot of a parking spot and ran all the way to the drain that was meant to keep rainwater from pooling. Rosie had likely died in under two or three minutes, staring her killer in the face as he ripped out her uterus. Fortunately, the scene bore no signs of missing body parts. I didn’t think my stomach could handle that.

  All in all, there wasn’t much to look at. The police had picked the scene clean. Whatever evidence there might have been was long gone. That meant it was another dead end for my investigation too.

  “Don’t touch me! I’m distraught!” Bertha cried outside.

  I perked up at the sound of the code word and spotted a new policeman coming toward the back door I’d entered through. I swore quietly and dodged behind the closest car.

  The policeman’s boots echoed loudly across the concrete. I held my breath as he drew closer to my hiding spot. He stopped mere feet away from me and knelt to examine the bloodstain. If he looked a few inches lower, he would spot my shoes through the space beneath the car. I drew my knees toward my chest and wished for him to go away.

  “Bloody awful,” he muttered to himself. “What kind of ba
stard would do such a thing?”

  The thought must not have sat with him well because he lifted himself to his feet and hurried away. I let out an enormous sigh, regaining my composure. Outside, Bertha had quieted. I wondered where she had gone.

  As I pushed myself up from the ground, something cold pricked my palm. It was a small metal pin with a single letter P emblazoned across the front. The pin had been hidden near the tire of the car, where none of the investigators had spotted it.

  I dallied, questioning what to do with the pin. If I handed it in to the police, I would have to admit to sneaking into the car park. If I kept it for myself, I could use it to further my investigation.

  The sound of fresh footsteps made the decision for me. I slipped the pin into my pocket and ran in the opposite direction, my feet pounding across the concrete.

  “Oi, who’s there?” someone shouted.

  I didn’t look behind me to see if I’d been spotted. Instead, I ducked behind an ugly SUV to break my pursuer’s line of vision. Then I switched directions and barged through another door, taking the chance that a police officer might be standing right outside.

  Luckily, the officer on guard was in the middle of changing positions with his relief. Neither one of them saw me come out of the car park, though they did spot me lurking in the shadows.

  “What’re you doing over there?” the new guard called. “This is a crime scene. It’s not safe.”

  “Sorry!” I called. “Just looking for my friend’s cat!”

  I circled around the front of the building, giving the police barricade a wide berth, and found Bertha waiting for me on the other side.

  “Well?” she asked. “Did you find anything?”

  “The cameras are pointed right at the murder site.” I clutched my chest, encouraging my lungs to catch up with the rest of my body. “No reason why there shouldn’t be footage.”

  “I knew it. Anything else?”

  I thought of the pin in my pocket. “No, nothing.”

  In the morning, Evelyn found me on the couch with my nose buried in my laptop. All night, I’d been trying to match the pin from the parking garage to its owner. I wasn’t having much luck. The pin didn’t have any distinguishing features on it other than the large ornate P on the front.