“Nothing.” I shuffled through my photos of when I’d first arrived in London. “Nothing at all.”
Evelyn stayed up later than usual to keep an eye on me. Around eleven o’clock, though, her eyelids started drooping. Her head lolled against the sofa, and she snored lightly. I batted her with a cushion.
“What—?” She shook off her fatigue. “I fell asleep and you didn’t sneak out?”
I offered her a cup of tea. “I wanted to make sure we were on even footing. Drink this. It’ll help you stay awake.”
She sipped from the mug and sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to bed? If the Ripper gets someone, we’ll hear about it in the morning.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get to bed soon enough.”
Twenty minutes later, Evelyn lay draped across the couch, struggling to remain awake. “You did something,” she mumbled as I covered her with a blanket. “You put something in the tea.”
“Just a bit of Benadryl.” I tucked her in. “Nothing that will hurt you or leave you hungover in the morning.”
She could hardly hold her head above the cushions or speak full sentences. “Don’t go. Jack—”
I pushed her hair out of her face and turned out the light. “You’ll be safe here. That’s all I want.”
At last, her eyes flickered shut. She was out, and not long after, so was I.
I walked to White’s Row, keeping an eye on the time. Midnight wasn’t long off, and neither was my date with the Ripper. The closer I got to old Miller’s Court, the faster my blood thrummed in my veins. Like the night in Mitre Square, my senses felt sharpened. The streetlights burned brighter, the water in the streets trickled louder, and the imaginary breath of past victims whispered against the back of my neck.
A single pair of police officers watched over White’s Row. They were nothing like the brigade that had showed up on Henriques Street. Officer Stowick was nowhere to be seen. I convinced myself there were more police around, waiting until the Ripper showed up to emerge. The two constables present stood at the wrong end of the street to catch the culprit. 13 Miller’s Court, where Mary Kelly had been found, was on the opposite corner.
I waited across the way, scanning the street for a glimpse of a stranger in the shadows. This time, I refused to be caught unawares. When I was sure no one stood in the darkness, I crossed the road and placed my back against the building that used to be Miller’s Court.
“Come on out,” I muttered under my breath. “I know who you are.”
Midnight came and went. Laughter echoed from the other end of the street as the constables pretended to do their jobs. The air grew colder. Drops of dew alighted on my hair and coat. I shivered and wiped the condensation off. My teeth chattered. I wished I’d brought a heavier jacket to wait out the night.
At one o’clock, I figured the killer had gotten cold feet. Perhaps they weren’t ready to face me after all. The constables had fallen quiet and retreated to their vehicle to get out of the cold. A thick layer of fog kept the streetlights from performing their purpose as well as necessary. It was time to call it a night.
As soon as I stepped away from the building and off the curb, the slightest noise caught my attention: a rasp of a boot against the street. Right as a long, sharp blade flashed to the level of my throat, I whipped around, flung open a switch knife I’d taken from Evelyn’s bedside table, and slashed across the front of my attacker’s torso. The long, hooded cloak prevented my blade from striking too deep, but it was enough to stun the Ripper. A gloved hand clasped the wound as blood dribbled onto the sidewalk.
I lunged forward and attempted to rip the hood off the Ripper’s face, but the Ripper brandished the blade again. This time, it caught the top of my right forearm, slicing right through my coat and skin. As I grasped my arm to my chest, the Ripper took off running.
The cut didn’t hurt, but the logical part of my brain reminded me that was probably an effect of adrenaline. As I sprinted after the Ripper, following the trail of blood leaking from the cloak, my senses sharpened once again. My eyes caught the wisp of fog as the Ripper’s cloak whipped around a corner. My ears tuned into the uneven patter of the Ripper’s boots, a sign the killer had stumbled. My nose caught a whiff of that jasmine shampoo. With my arm bleeding freely, I ran on.
When the Ripper turned into a narrow alleyway, the footsteps halted. I slowed my pace and held the switchblade—covered in the Ripper’s blood—firmly in hand. Carefully, I peered around the corner.
A smaller knife flew past my face, nearly taking a chunk out of my nose. I dodged just in time, and the knife clattered into the street behind me. I stepped into the alleyway to finally face the Ripper.
She stood in the direct center of the backstreet, the hood of her cloak resting on her neck. Her short blonde hair gleamed in the moonlight. She looked taller like this, in the middle of the night, holding the blade that was responsible for at least two deaths.
“I knew it was you,” I said. “As soon as you sent me those letters. I matched the handwriting to the sign outside the tour office.”
Bertha mustered a nasty smile. “You’ve been an irritation ever since you showed up in Whitechapel. Asking all those questions during the tour, making me look like an idiot at my own job. I didn’t appreciate that.”
“I was right,” I said. “About everything. The Mouse Killer is your boat, isn’t it? Each time you made a kill, you moved it to a new mooring. Took a leaf out of Carl Feigenbaum’s book, eh? Still believe he wasn’t the original Ripper?”
She flipped the blade in her hand. It spun in the air and landed safely—handle first—in her palm. The control she had over it made my stomach turn.
“I told you the night of the tour,” she said. “I believe the Ripper was a woman. Why do you think I planned all of this in the first place?”
“Unfortunate genetic material?”
Her lip curled. “I wanted to prove it was possible for a woman to be the Ripper. Once I’m finished with you, I’ll have done it.”
“For what purpose?” I asked. “No one will know it was you. Not without you facing years in prison.”
She puffed out her chest. “I intend to write dear Inspector Baker a letter. I’ll be long gone by the time he reads it, but all of London will know who the real Ripper was by the end of the week. They’ll know.”
“And where do you intend to go?” I asked dryly.
She shrugged. “Wherever I please. I have plans in place.” She flicked her cloak away to free her knife hand. The other clutched the wound in her torso. “Now shut up. This’ll be a lot easier if you don’t scream.”
“Whoa!” I lifted my knife to remind her I had one. “Before you try to slice me open, I want a few questions answered. I deserve that, don’t you think?”
That was the thing about purely evil people. They loved to talk. They enjoyed explaining how they had gotten away with their crimes. How they’d cornered you last to savor the moment. They took pleasure in watching the fear form like crystals in a victim’s eyes. At least, I hoped Bertha obliged.
“What do you want to know?” she asked, masking her curiosity with a sharp tone.
“How did you get rid of the CCTV footage from the first two murders?” I said. “And how did you alter the footage of me and you in Mitre Square?”
Bertha chuckled. “Something you might not know about me: I used to work in IT before I got arrested for illegally accessing bank records. I know a lot about computers. CCTVs are about the easiest thing you can break into. I deleted the footage from those nights. As for the altered footage, I used some simple video editing tricks. I needed something to throw the cops off my trail. You were the perfect decoy.”
She took another fast step toward me. I backed up again.
“One more thing,” I said. “Does your little brother know you’re a murderer?”
She looked as though I’d hit her across the face with a brick. “What are you talking about?”
“Henry Alco
tt,” I said. “He’s your brother, isn’t he? You visited him at Oxford before you murdered Rosie Brigham. You bought shampoo with his credit card, and I’m guessing you borrowed his brush too. That’s why his hair was found on Rosie’s clothes. That’s why he was arrested instead of you.” As Bertha stared at me, stunned, another detail clicked into place. “The book in the Oxford library. The Mind of a Killer. The author’s last name was Alcott too. A relative of yours?”
“My uncle,” Bertha couldn’t help but admit. “He was a psychiatrist. He was the one who got me so interested in Jack the Ripper. He loved Henry and me more than our own father.”
“Not enough to stop you from becoming a killer.”
Bertha sneered. “You think you’re so smart. You think you got everything all figured out, eh? I’ve looked you and your friend up, you know. You both have dirty secrets. Does Evelyn know about yours?”
Rage reverberated in the depths of my throat as I growled, “Don’t talk to me about Evelyn.”
“She’s not innocent either,” Bertha teased. “Do you know what she really does for her job?”
“She’s a bodyguard.”
“That’s what she’d like you to think.”
“Enough,” I said, shaking. “I’m not playing your mind games.”
She lifted her shoulders. “Suit yourself. No games means we’re done talking. Why don’t you step a little closer, Jack? Come see what the Ripper has in store for you.”
My sweaty palm slipped around the handle of the switchblade. “How’s that cut on your stomach? Feeling a little weak yet?”
“You hardly touched me.” She let out an odious giggle. “But I see how big that gash on your arm is. That’ll scar if you survive. Don’t worry, though. You won’t.”
Without warning, she charged toward me. For such a tall woman, she moved faster than anyone I’d met, including Evelyn. Sheer luck, and the fact that I was small enough to fit between the brick wall and a large dumpster to escape her reach, allowed me to evade the sharp blade. I shot out the other end, smelling of trash juice, and sprinted up the alley.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
Bertha seized the back of my coat and yanked me toward her. With her arm wrapped around my throat and her knife quickly rising, I had nowhere to go but down. I dropped to my knees, slipping right out of her clutch. Then I spun and slashed her right ankle. To my surprise, the switchblade cut right through the tendon on top of her foot.
She roared in pain and stumbled backward, her foot dangling uselessly from her leg. When she tried to walk, her boot slipped in a puddle of her own blood. Her jaw twitched as she steadied herself against the wall and tested the extent of her new injury.
Panting, I didn’t think to get up and run. My head was woozy, like I’d had too much to drink. As my vision swam, I glanced at my arm. The sleeve of my coat was soaked with blood. An overhead lamp shone on the gash. The wound stretched from the inside of my elbow all the way to the bone of my wrist. I’d underestimated the sheer size of the gash.
“How did it feel?” Bertha gasped. “Putting the knife to someone? It’s good, isn’t it? Exhilarating?”
“Only because I did it for justice,” I replied through tight teeth. I undid my belt, wrapped it around my arm, and pulled it tight like a tourniquet. If it worked to stem the blood flow, I had no idea, but my fingers had begun to go numb. “You’re sick, Bertha. You need help.”
She shook her head and limped toward me. “No, I’m not sick. I’m free. I’ve been waiting to do this my whole life. Lay down, Jack. Let the night take you. Let me take you.”
The numbness spread up my arm. My stomach lurched. The cold pavement leeched the warmth from my body. I was losing too much blood.
“Get away from me,” I tried to say, but my words came out slurred and unintelligible.
Bertha towered over me. Her teeth sparkled in the moonlight as she bared them in a grin. She lifted her hand, the long blade of her knife glistening.
“No,” I gasped. With the last of my strength and lucidity, I hacked blindly with the switchblade. Bertha easily side-stepped my attack. “Get away from me.”
She leaned over me, her eyes attaching to mine. “You were a good girl, Jack. Everyone will remember you. You’re the perfect victim.”
The blade neared my throat, but as I muddled through the darkness, trying desperately to stay conscious, Bertha’s eyes flickered upward in surprise. She retracted the knife as she looked at someone standing near my head.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “How did you find—?”
A thump echoed through the alleyway, and Bertha fell limply into the street. I fought to keep my eyes open as a shadow lumbered over me, but I couldn’t stay awake.
Everything went black.
21
Three Months Later
The Windsor café was a warm refuge in a cold winter. The drive from Whitechapel had been long and slippery. In the city, it hadn’t snowed so much as slushed. Ugly ice settled on the roads, and it wasn’t fun to drive on. In the country, at least, some of the snow’s prettiness remained. The snow settled on windowsills and roofs, a thin blanket of pure white.
The café bustled with shoppers and locals, desperate to find a respite from the brisk wind and harsh air outside. Since I was early, I stood in a corner and scoped for a place to sit. Ten minutes later, a pair of students began packing up their things. I swooped in behind them and sat at their vacated table before they’d made it to the door.
A hawk-nosed woman sneered at me, evidently agitated I’d reached the table before her. “Are you going to use that other chair?”
With my toe, I drew the chair closer to the table. “Yes, I’m meeting someone. Sorry.”
I ordered coffee and a scone. When it arrived, I took off my gloves and wrapped my frigid hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into my skin. I inhaled the steam rising from the coffee and savored the scent of freshly ground beans. The scone came with complimentary clotted cream and jam. One of the reasons I had not bothered to return to San Diego was the city’s obvious lack of good scones. There was nothing more comforting than biting into a fluffy cloud of perfectly baked goodness.
My stomach twirled every time the bell over the door jingled and someone new came in. Not even the perfect scone could settle my nerves. At the bell’s next tinkle, a thin man in his sixties ducked to avoid bumping his head on the doorframe as he entered. He wore silver wire-rimmed glasses that matched his slick hair, a thick denim workman’s coat, and heavy well-worn snow boots. He also carried a black document folder. His keen eyes methodically scanned the café, and when they reached me, I lifted a trembling hand. He nodded and wound his way toward me, steering clear of anyone else’s table despite his overwhelming height and the café’s business.
“Jacqueline?” he asked. “I’m Dermot Guffey.”
This was the man whose number Nadine had written on a napkin for me. I hoped my hand wasn’t too sweaty as I shook his. “Thanks for meeting me. Would you like some tea?”
“Tea would be lovely.”
He lowered and folded his long body like origami paper to sit across from me. Somehow, he fit in the limited space without spilling over. I flagged the server, and Dermot ordered tea and biscuits. He happily dunked the dry cookie-like crackers into his tea and nibbled on a few before speaking.
“Sorry about that,” he said, brushing biscuit crumbs off the table. “I missed breakfast this morning. My wife and I were babysitting our granddaughter and had to see her off to school. Anyway, let’s get to it, shall we? Your mother.”
I set aside my coffee as he lifted the document folder onto the small tabletop. It was better if I didn’t have anything to spill in the immediate vicinity, since the subject at hand might cause me to react unexpectedly at any moment.
“As I told you over the phone, I was the only detective who continued searching for the Box Cutter Killer long after he had supposedly stopped killing.” Dermot laid out several pages of notes
. The paper was torn, dirty, and stained in some places. His handwriting was cramped and impossible to read. “Sorry about the state of them. They’ve been sitting in a box in my garage for years.” He added a stack of photos, facedown, to the pile. “Don’t look at those quite yet, unless you want to lose your lunch.”
He tucked the document folder behind his back, folded his hands, and cleared his throat. “From what we’ve discussed, you know some of the truth about the Box Cutter. He was a serial murderer who operated in Surrey, Greater London, and Kent. At least, that was where most of his victims were found. His preferred weapon of choice, obviously, was a box cutter. He also enjoyed torturing certain victims with various types of tools: screwdrivers, drills, nails, and the like.”
Dermot paused, noticing the color had drained from my face, and gave me a moment to recollect myself. “He did not torture your mother,” he added. “That was reserved for women that he was able to lure away from the public eye, specifically women who had rejected his advances outwardly in the first place. He often intentionally came on harshly to handsome women, hoping to provoke an angry reply. When they obliged, he made them his next target.
“Because of the nature of his weaponry, I had a hunch the killer was someone who worked closely with those tools,” Dermot went on. His educational tone helped me keep it together. I felt like I was sitting in a criminal psychology class rather than listening to a retired detective tell me about the man who murdered my mother. “I also noticed the attacks were often located near an active construction site. I began investigating the men who had worked at more than one of those sites. The list was long, but I finally managed to narrow it down to one name.”
“Which was?” I asked hoarsely.
Dermot flipped over the topmost photograph. It was a mugshot of a fairly normal-looking man with classic English features: a round head, fair hair and skin, light eyes, and a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks.
“Dillon Moore,” he said. “He was a construction worker for a company that did a lot of work around London during that time. More than once, the company suspended him for yelling profanities at passing women while he was on the job. I interviewed several witnesses who said they saw Dillon in the company of his victims whilst they were still alive, but that wasn’t enough to convict him. So I got a search warrant for his home and found his famed box cutter. He hadn’t bothered to clean it, so confident he would never get caught. It still had the blood of his last victim on the blade.”
A Buried Past Page 23
