“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would.”
“I thought we were a team!”
“We are, but—”
A shrill scream echoed down Henriques Street. Evelyn and I both swung our heads around to squint through the windshield. The police officers, wearing alarmed expressions, abandoned their posts and ran toward an indefinite point inside the gates of the primary school. They disappeared from the street, all in the courtyard that used to be Dutfield’s Yard in 1888. Had they found a body? Did they catch the Ripper?
All thoughts of using the restroom evacuated my head. I put the car in drive and slammed on the gas pedal, preparing to turn onto Back Church Lane, where the Ripper would surely make his escape. But as I approached the turn, a sudden realization hit me, and I hit the brakes.
“What are you waiting for?” Evelyn demanded. “Drive! We’re going to miss him!”
“It’s a diversion,” I muttered. My mind whirled with possibilities. If I was the Ripper, what would I have done to get the police out of the way before my next scheduled kill?
“What are you talking about?” Evelyn asked, exasperated.
“The scream.” I put the car in reverse and backed out the way we had come. “Luring the cops into the primary school. It’s a diversion. The Ripper planned this, but I bet you anything he’s already on his way to Mitre Square.”
Evelyn craned her neck to get a look down Back Church Lane. The officers had yet to emerge on the other side of the primary school. “Are you positive? You’re willing to risk missing the Ripper here?”
I peeled away from Henriques Street, made a quick left turn on Whitechapel High Street, and floored it toward Mitre Square. It was a five-minute drive away, but I made it there in three. I slowed down and cruised by the square. Three police cars lined Mitre Street, outside the tall bank building and yet another primary school that bordered the small courtyard within. There was far less coverage than at the previous location, most likely because the police weren’t expecting the killer to get here for another forty-five minutes. The officers rested in their cars, chatting with their partners and occasionally doing a visual sweep of the area.
I kept driving, around to the back of Mitre Square toward Saint James’s passage, the little alleyway we had planned to spy through. Unfortunately, it was blocked off to cars by a row of evenly spaced concrete balusters, so I parked along the curve of the empty road that led to it. From here, I had a decent view down the alleyway and into the square, but I couldn’t see anything to the left or right of the narrow cut-through.
Evelyn grimaced as she shifted in her seat, trying to find a place for her long legs to go. “Wanna explain why you pulled a Taxi Driver back there?”
“Because whoever’s killing people in Whitechapel knows the original Ripper case as well—or better—than I do,” I said.
“Bloody hell, I didn’t think you’d ever admit to someone knowing more about a serial killer than you do. What’s that got to do with Henriques Street?”
“Elizabeth Stride, the third woman who was murdered in Whitechapel in 1888, was discovered with her throat cut,” I explained. “But the knife used to do it was much smaller than the one the Ripper favored. The Ripper became famous for mutilating the bodies of his victims, even carving crosses on their faces, but Stride had no other wounds. Dutfield’s Yard was a busy place back then, and there would have been a lot of people walking around in public. The Ripper normally chose secluded areas to complete his kills.”
“So you don’t think the Ripper killed Elizabeth Stride?” Evelyn clarified.
“I’m inclined to say no.” I nervously crunched the empty crisps bag and returned my gaze to the lonely street. “The third murder was entirely different from the others, even if it’s lumped in as one of the canonical five. It’s a hunch—a big one—but I’d bet our copycat killer doesn’t think Jack killed Elizabeth Stride either.”
Evelyn blotted her sweaty forehead with a paper napkin. “I had no idea I was getting a history lesson tonight.”
I lifted the camera and peered through the lens. The officers at the other end of Mitre Square hadn’t moved from their cars. I was sure they would have been alerted if the hubbub on Henriques Street culminated in another kill or if anyone caught sight of the Ripper, but they appeared calm and unworried. Saint James’s Passage remained unguarded.
“Why didn’t they station any officers here?” I muttered, more to myself than to Evelyn. “They should have covered all entry and exit points to the square.”
Evelyn leaned across my seat and peered through the window. Her breath rattled in her lungs. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe someone’s on a break? Or—”
“They’re setting him up,” I finished for her, sensing her thought before she voiced it. “They want the Ripper to think they’re lazy or incompetent. They want him to use the back alley to get in. That way they can catch him from the other side.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered. “So far, the Ripper’s been adamant about getting the time and place right. If he thinks he has a chance to kill in Mitre Square, he’ll do it.”
“What about a victim? There’s nobody around.”
“Except for us.”
Evelyn settled in her seat with a light thump and rested her head against the chair. Her hair stuck to her temple. When she took a long breath in, it was interrupted by a series of coughs. I patted her on the back.
“I’m all right,” she insisted, batting my hand away. “Just coming down with a cold or something. Pay attention.”
She hit the button to lock the car doors twice, even though they were already locked. I hesitated before turning away from her to keep an eye on the passage. The police officers hadn’t moved. Through the camera, I watched as one of them laughed uproariously at something his partner said. They weren’t surveying the square at all.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. “I can’t see a thing. We need to get closer.”
Evelyn had closed her eyes and reclined her seat. “This is as close as it gets. The cops are blocking the main road on the opposite side.”
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel. We weren’t going to catch the killer without a fair view of the square. I glanced up and down the street. No one was in sight.
Out of nowhere, a thick fog settled over Whitechapel, enveloping the car in a translucent gray cloud. I didn’t dare turn on the headlights; they might scare away the killer if he was heading toward the square.
Evelyn breathed deeply. Was she asleep? Quietly, I opened the driver’s side door a mere inch. She snapped to attention.
“Don’t even think about it, Jack,” she hissed.
“Do you see this fog?” I shot back. “The view down the passage is completely obscured. It’s almost 1:45. The Ripper will be here any moment, and if we miss him—”
“Maybe it’s better if we miss him!” she said. “Since you’re clearly trying to volunteer as his next victim!”
“I’ll be careful. Lock the doors after me.”
“Don’t you dare—!”
The last thing I saw was the livid look on her face as I grabbed the baton, slipped out of the car, and darted into Saint James’s passage. It was easy enough to keep to the shadows, since the entire square was shrouded in darkness. I crouched down and crept along slowly. Every sound was amplified: my shoes rasping against the concrete, the drip of water from a nearby gutter, a mouse scurrying off into the night. I listened intently for any hint that the Ripper might be behind me.
The hair on my arms and the back of my neck rose as I neared the end of Saint James’s Passage and got my first full view of Mitre Square. This was it. In a few minutes, the Ripper would appear to claim his next kill, but with no one else in sight, who would he choose to stand in as the next Catherine Eddowes?
The police cars all but disappeared in the fog. All I could see were the bright-yellow patches on the sides of the
vehicles. The officers remained within the comfort of their heated sedans. If they bothered to keep watch over the square, I couldn’t tell. It was impossible to see through their windshields, but that meant their visibility was low too.
Something cracked behind me, and I nearly leapt out of my skin as I whirled around to face the passage. It was nothing. The wind had blown a dead tree branch off the roof of a nearby building. No sign of the Ripper.
In the square, a door creaked open and then settled shut again. I ducked lower and kept behind my shadowy corner, my pulse skyrocketing as I watched for the source of the noise.
It was a small woman, not much taller or heavier than me. She had emerged from the bank building, carrying a briefcase and her coat. What she was doing there at such a late hour was a mystery. She shivered as the fog settled on her skin and set her briefcase down to put on her coat. The police didn’t move. Had they even noticed her?
The woman picked up her briefcase, squared her shoulders, and turned toward an opening in the buildings. My eyes widened. There was another passage into and out of Mitre Square, smaller than the alley behind me, that neither the police nor Evelyn had bothered to mark on their maps.
The woman disappeared into the narrow passage. Then, out of the shadows, came a tall, dark figure. It followed the woman into the alley. My blood pressure dropped, and a dull roaring filled my ears. The Ripper had been in the square this entire time, right under the cops’ noses. Right under my nose. And now he was about to claim another victim.
I couldn’t stand by and wait while an innocent woman was in danger, and the cops certainly weren’t doing anything. I sprinted across the square, my shoes slapping against the wet concrete. Police lights flashed, and sirens blared.
“Sure, now you’re watching,” I muttered breathlessly.
I didn’t stop, even when the police called after me. A scream echoed from the darkness as I skidded into the passage. A flowery scent wafted over me as I spotted the tall cloaked figure, his knife at the woman’s throat.
“Oi!” I shouted as loudly as possible, channeling Evelyn. I pulled the baton free and ran straight toward the struggling pair. “Get away from her!”
The killer paused and looked at me. Straight at me. It was too dark to see his face. I caught a glimpse of fair hair before the knife slashed across the woman’s throat.
“No!”
The Ripper dropped the victim and ran. I almost followed him, but the woman was still alive. I dropped to my knees beside her, tore off my sweater, and used it to stem the blood flowing from her throat. The police thundered toward me.
“Medic!” I cried, fumbling with the bloodstained sweater as I tried to blink away my tears. “She’s still alive! The killer went that way!”
A group of officers ran off in the direction of my pointed finger. Two others yanked at my arms, trying to get me to my feet, but I refused to move until a paramedic took my place. When the paramedic arrived, they replaced the sweater with thick pads of gauze and applied deep pressure to the wound. The woman’s eyes flickered and closed as she fell into unconsciousness.
“What’s your name?” a police officer asked me gruffly, his thick fingers encircling my arm. “Oi, what’s your name? What were you doing in Mitre Square tonight?”
“Is she dying?” I fought to look around his broad shoulders and keep an eye on the bleeding woman. “Is she going to be okay?”
“I think you got to her in time,” the paramedic called back. “The wound isn’t as deep as the others were. She’s lost a lot of blood, but she should make it. The ambulance is around the corner.”
A moment later, the ambulance arrived in a confusing array of flashing lights. More paramedics unloaded, carrying a stretcher and additional medical supplies. One of them checked the woman’s pulse and nodded to another. She was still fighting. They carefully got the woman on a stretcher and into the emergency rig. All the while, the police officer kept me from going anywhere.
“Miss, calm down,” he said as I struggled to free myself from his grasp. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
“She’s in shock,” the paramedic who’d first spoken to me told the officer. She was a short but stout woman. As the ambulance drove away, she discarded her medical gloves and sanitized her hands with a wipe from her equipment bag. Then she shined a flashlight in my eyes. “Hi, I’m Bryony. What’s your name?”
“J-Jack,” I stammered.
Bryony pressed two fingers against my wrist and checked my pulse. “That was an amazing thing you did back there. You saved that woman’s life. How did you know this was going to happen?”
“I’m a Ripper expert,” I managed. “I knew he would be here tonight. I wanted to make sure he didn’t hurt anyone else.”
“Job’s a good ’un,” she said.
The police officer—his badge said Stowick—pulled Bryony aside. “How do you know she’s not the killer? She could be feeding you a pack of lies. She’s the only one we saw in the square or the passage, other than the victim.”
“Because you weren’t watching,” I butted in. Slowly, my bubbling blood settled. I could draw full breaths again. “I saw the whole thing. The Ripper was waiting in the square while you lot were laughing it up in your cars.”
Stowick’s plump face turned bright red. “See here, miss. If you’re not the killer, then you must’ve seen him. Who was it?”
“He was tall,” I replied firmly. “At least six feet or more. He had fair hair and was wearing a long, hooded cloak. Oh, and he smelled of flowers.”
“Flowers, eh?” The officer snorted. “I’m sure Jack the Ripper likes to smell rosy fresh.”
“You asked,” I snapped.
The other officers returned from their jog around Mitre Square. When Stowick asked them for a report, they had nothing to give.
“No sign of him,” said one. “He got away again, sir.”
Stowick growled and pointed at me. “You’re coming with me to the station.”
“That’s fine,” I said, “but I have to check on my friend first.”
With the Bryony’s help, I convinced Stowick to let me go back to my car, with one of his officers to escort me. Evelyn was asleep inside. When I knocked on the window, she didn’t wake. I knocked harder. She didn’t respond. Bryony took one look at Evelyn’s pale face and grasped the baton from my hand.
“Stand back,” she warned and smashed the window.
14
My recent nightmares were nothing compared to not knowing what was wrong with Evelyn. I had been stupid to let her push me away, to ignore the signs that she was unwell. I should have never dragged her out of the flat when I knew she wasn’t feeling up to par, but if I hadn’t gone to Mitre Square, the Ripper’s latest victim would be dead by now.
As Bryony and another team of paramedics loaded Evelyn into a second ambulance, Stowick badgered me with the same series of questions. What were we doing there? Why was I so interested in the new Ripper? What was an American doing in London anyway?
As the ambulance was about to pull away, Bryony took me by the arm and hauled me into the back of the rig. To Stowick, she said, “Back off. Her friend is sick.”
With that, she slammed the ambulance door in Stowick’s face. As we rode to the hospital, I held Evelyn’s limp hand.
“What’s wrong with her?” I asked in a quiet voice.
“My best guess?” said Bryony. “It’s probably a major infection. No one goes from fine to fainting in a few hours. How long as she been like this?”
I thought back on our last couple of days together and our mutual pact to improve our situations. She was well enough to do her exercises the previous day, and I didn’t think she looked unwell until we got into the car before the stakeout.
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “She doesn’t always tell me how she’s feeling.”
“This would have been a stupid thing to hide,” Bryony mentioned. “Especially with her shoulder. Dislocation?”
“Twice.”
<
br /> “Christ, that’s gotta hurt.” She studied me for a long moment. “Were you telling Stowick the truth back there?”
I squeezed Evelyn’s hand, wishing she would squeeze back. “I wasn’t lying. We went to find out who the Ripper was, but when I saw him stalking that woman, I couldn’t leave her to die.”
“That was brave of you,” she said. “Not many people would confront a serial killer head-on like that. It could have been a Double Event after all, with you as the second.”
“Stowick was right behind me,” I replied. “He would have prevented something like that.”
“Still.” Bryony braced herself as the ambulance bumped over a dip in the road. “She’s lucky you were there.”
The ambulance lurched to a stop, and the paramedics went into work mode again. They brought Evelyn out of the rig and into the Accidents and Emergency unit. I hurried alongside Bryony, afraid of being left behind.
“What do we got?” demanded a doctor as they wheeled Evelyn into a private room.
“One of Wagner’s,” Bryony answered, handing the doctor a clipboard with Evelyn’s information on it. I answered most of the questions while one of the other paramedics filled out the forms. “Dislocated shoulder. Two surgeries. Tenderness and swelling at the surgery site.”
The doctor nodded. “Thanks, Bryony. We’ll take it from here.” He beckoned to one of his assistants, and I recognized James—William Lewis’s best friend—as he stepped forward. “James, get in there and take a look at that shoulder.” The doctor’s gaze flicked to me. “Who are you?”
“I’m her friend,” I said in a small voice.
“No relation?”
I shook my head.
“Then I’m afraid you need to leave.”
“I’m the only person she has.”
The doctor led me toward the door. “I can assure you your friend is in good hands. We have a strong relationship with the Wagner Company. We take good care of their employees. I’ll send someone out to update you as soon as possible.”
A Buried Past Page 16
