A Buried Past

by Alexandria Clarke

  I scooted closer to her and lowered my voice. “Do you know what happened with that body on Durward Street? Think it was a Ripper kill?”

  Bertha glanced around to make sure none of the tourists would be scared off by our conversation. “Between you and me? I think that’s exactly what it was. Every once in a while, someone attempts a copycat kill. Most don’t succeed, but this person knew what he was doing. The lad who was killed—”

  “It was a man?” I asked, already disappointed in the discrepancy.

  “He was in the right place at the right time,” Bertha continued in a hushed tone. “They found his body almost exactly where Mary Jane Nichols was discovered all those years ago. His throat was slit left to right, just like hers, and his abdomen slashed open. Only difference was the gender, but I don’t think that’s any reason to discount this for what it is.”

  I leaned even closer. “So it’s true, then.”

  “The Ripper’s back.”

  4

  Evelyn made her opinion known all the way home, through the night, and into the next morning. Whenever she had breath for it, she begged me not to look into the murder on Durward Street. This kill was a coincidence. She was sure of it, and the police would surely catch the killer in a matter of days.

  “It happened on the exact same day,” I insisted over the full English breakfast I made for her the next morning. “At the exact same time! August 31, right around three in the morning. It has to be a copycat murder. I’d be naive not to look into it.”

  Though I wished I could attribute Evelyn’s grumpiness to being out so late and up so early, she made it clear her mood was a direct outcome of my murderous curiosity. “You said yourself the murder didn’t match up with the original Ripper kill,” she pointed out, mouth full of sausage. “All of the original victims were women. If a copycat murderer is on the loose, they wouldn’t have strayed from that. They would have waited for a woman.”

  “They would have taken the first opportunity that came along,” I countered. “The first murder isn’t as difficult to match. No organs were removed. If the second murder happens—”

  “Which it won’t.”

  “Then it should be a woman with her uterus removed,” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard her. I picked up the phone. “I should go to the police. They probably need a Ripper expert to help them out with this.”

  Evelyn picked the phone out of my grasp and tossed it onto the couch. When I attempted to fetch it, she wrapped her good arm around my waist and forced me to sit back in my seat. “You will not badger the police,” she ordered. “Did you forget why you’re here? You’re supposed to be helping me, not solving a murder mystery from the eighteen hundreds.”

  “No one can solve the Ripper case.” If her health was up to par, I would’ve wrestled free of her arm, but I didn’t want to risk injuring her shoulder again. “Sure, Carl Feigenbaum is the most likely suspect, but we’ll never be able to confirm that. This case, on the other hand, is different. We have forensic evidence and CCTV footage.”

  “Exactly,” Evelyn said. “If the police have all of that at their disposal, they can find the killer on their own. They don’t need your help.”

  “But what if—?”

  “Jack. No.”

  My lower lip jutted out. Evelyn’s scowl subsided.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, her grip around my waist loosening. “It’s not fair.”

  I upped the drama of my expression, adding doe eyes to the equation. I knew Evelyn too well. She couldn’t resist me for long.

  She shoved a sausage between my teeth and pushed me off her lap. “Get out of my sight, Frye.”

  I skipped over to the couch and turned the TV on. Evelyn munched on back bacon while I found the local news channel. After a weather report and some fluff pieces passed, a perky reporter appeared on screen, his collared shirt buttoned so tightly to his chin that he seemed to be in danger of suffocation. I caught sight of Durward Street in the background of his shot, which was roped off to public access, and turned up the volume.

  “The police have not made any further progress on the violent crime that occurred behind me three nights ago, mere yards from the Royal London Hospital,” the reporter said. “William Lewis was found murdered, his throat and abdomen severely cut. He bled out from injuries in the street and was dead upon discovery. Historians will recall this as the same location as Jack the Ripper’s first murder, but the police have discounted theories that a new Ripper is loose in London.”

  The footage switched to a prerecorded interview with the chief inspector of police. He stood on the top step of the hospital, while journalists bombarded him with questions from below.

  Someone thrust a microphone in the inspector’s face. “Inspector Baker!” the owner of the mic shouted. “Can you shed some light on the recent murder on Durward Street? Is it true the police have no leads?”

  Baker already looked weary of questions. His eyelids hung heavy, and his jowls stretched downward, as if a toddler had taken hold of the skin on his face and swung freely from it. “We are in the process of examining the CCTV footage of the crime scene. As soon as we do, we’ll be able to procure a picture of our suspect. I intend to have the culprit in hand by the end of the day.”

  Evelyn snorted, spraying beans across the countertop.

  “You don’t believe him?” I asked her.

  “If they had decent CCTV footage, they would have caught the bastard by now,” Evelyn said. “It’s been three days. They would have examined that footage right after the murder. It must not be viable.”

  “How could it not be viable?” I asked. “Doesn’t CCTV cover every square inch of this city?”

  “Yeah, it’s a panopticon,” she replied. “That doesn’t mean it works. CCTV gets thrown out in a lot of cases because the footage is too grainy or isn’t good enough to give the police an accurate picture to work with. That’s why there’s so much crime here. Criminals aren’t afraid of the cameras.”

  “Inspector Baker!” another journalist called to the fatigued investigator, recapturing my attention. “Do you believe this murder is a tribute to the original Ripper kill on Buck’s Row in 1888? Should we fear the wrath of another Leather Apron?”

  “Bollocks,” the inspector muttered under his breath. If I hadn’t been paying such close attention, I might not have picked up the subtle swear word. Baker addressed his interviewers again. “As far as we’re concerned, this is a mere coincidence. There is no evidence that this homicide is connected to the original Ripper case. Do not buy into the preposterous idea that a new Ripper is on the loose. It will encourage fear and chaos in the streets. I implore the citizens of London to continue with their daily lives. As usual, exercise caution when outside late at night and return home at a respectable time to avoid trouble. Simple common sense will keep you safe.”

  The inspector stepped off his makeshift stage, but the journalists continued to hound him with further questions. The news program switched back to the collared reporter.

  “It is not uncommon for an attack like this to occur on or near Durward Street,” he said calmly. “Three years ago, a woman was assaulted in the same place, though she survived the mugging. Two years prior to that, another woman was murdered a few blocks away. Each time, the public attempted to attach the crime to old history, and each time, the culprit was apprehended with the help of CCTV footage, preventing any further bloodshed. Only time will tell if there is a new Ripper in town.”

  The TV switched off. I saw that Evelyn had finished her breakfast and commandeered the remote. “I have physiotherapy in half an hour,” she announced. “You’re driving me there, yeah? I think it’d be helpful for you to see how the therapist works with my shoulder.”

  Evelyn winced her way through the therapy session. So far, she had not regained much mobility in her shoulder. As the hour wore on, Evelyn’s expression grew grumpier. Her eyebrows drew together, and she pursed her lips like a dissatisfied restaurant patron
. The therapist, a kind woman named Alba, scored high on her patience assessment. No matter Evelyn’s attitude, Alba remained calm and soothing.

  “You’re expecting too much of yourself too soon,” she told Evelyn as the session came to a close. “Usually, I have the opposite problem with my patients. They whine about how much it hurts.”

  “It does hurt,” Evelyn said through gritted teeth as she attempted extra reps of the last exercise. “But I have to get back in shape.”

  Alba rested a hand on Evelyn’s shoulder, preventing her from lifting it again. “You’re done for the day. Let’s get some ice on there.”

  While Alba left to fetch the cooling pack, Evelyn went back to her exercises. Sweat beaded on her forehead as the color drained from her face.

  “Maybe you should take it easy,” I suggested. “You heard what Alba said.”

  “I can’t baby my shoulder,” she huffed. “You know how many of my coworkers got hurt and never came back because they didn’t do enough PT?”

  She struggled to lift a two-pound weight. A vein in her forehead popped. If she continued doing this, I feared she might burst a blood vessel in her brain. I plucked the weight out of her hand.

  “I’m doing this for your own good,” I promised her when her eyes stabbed daggers into mine. “Listen to the therapist.”

  “Ah, see!” Alba returned with a plastic bag full of ice. As she taped it to Evelyn’s shoulder, she said, “Your friend has sense. Is she sticking around?”

  “For now,” Evelyn grumbled.

  “For as long as she needs me,” I corrected. “What can I do to help her heal?”

  “Keep her on a leash.”

  Evelyn growled, “I am not a dog.”

  “You bark like one,” I commented, earning a sharp smack to my thigh. I caught Evelyn’s good hand and sandwiched it between mine. She tugged halfheartedly then gave up. “Don’t worry, Alba,” I said. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t ruin your work.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  A shrill siren sounded in the streets as a police car passed by the window of the office. Alba’s face scrunched up, worry etched in each line.

  “Be careful heading home,” she warned. “You don’t know who might be roaming the streets.”

  “You mean the Ripper?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  Alba shuddered. “Don’t say that. It would be a nightmare.”

  “But you think that’s what could be happening, right?” I pressed. “Have you lived in Whitechapel for a long time? Does this sort of thing happen often?”

  Evelyn pinched the sensitive skin on the back of my arm.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry, Alba. I’m obsessed with my health. She’s obsessed with murderers. Who’s more balanced now?”

  Alba rolled up Evelyn’s paperwork and whacked her lightly on the head with it. “That’s enough out of you. Promise me you won’t overwork that shoulder. If we have to start this process all over again, I won’t forgive you.”

  “Fine.”

  Evelyn rose to her feet and lumbered off to the small locker room to rinse the sweat from her face, leaving me alone with Alba.

  “Not to badger you,” I said, “but are you really worried Whitechapel isn’t safe? I’m a tourist. I could use some advice.”

  Alba used an antibacterial wipe to clean the equipment Evelyn had worked on. “The Ripper was one of the most famous serial killers to ever live. There are people who idolize his work, especially considering he was never caught. Every once in a while, Whitechapel gets a scare like this. It shouldn’t be taken lightly.” Alba tossed the wipe into the bin, her hand trembling. “I worry because the police don’t have any leads. Have you seen the news lately?”

  “We watched this morning,” I said. “They’re studying the CCTV footage—”

  “Oi, let’s go!” Evelyn barked as she emerged from the locker room and tossed a balled-up paper towel into the bin. “This place depresses me.”

  In the lobby, Evelyn stopped short, and I bounced off her.

  “Can you go tell her I like her?” she muttered.

  “Who?”

  “Alba,” Evelyn said. “It’s not her fault I’m injured. Go apologize and tell her she’s doing a great job so far.”

  “Why don’t you go tell her?”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “Because I’m embarrassed, all right?”

  After completing Evelyn’s favor, we passed an independent bookstore to pick up reading material. Evelyn chose a book about a martial arts form she hadn’t learned yet. I yearned to find the newest documentation on the Ripper, but with Evelyn’s disapproval burning like the hot sun into the back of my neck, I picked a random murder mystery instead. Since we couldn’t spend every day touring London like a couple of foreigners, we needed things to do at home other than stare at the TV. Evelyn had a bad habit of binge-watching crappy horror films. No matter how poor the quality, those sorts of movies always gave me nightmares. Unfortunately, no amount of reading material could keep Evelyn from her terrifying addiction.

  “It’s not real,” she reminded me that evening as she turned on the telly to continue the latest series she’d been watching. Her book lay facedown, the spine broken. She had already read half of it, and I suspected most of the pages were full of figures and diagrams of how to complete the moves rather than actual words. “Demons and ghosts, yeah? They don’t exist.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” My eyelids dragged each time I blinked. That afternoon, I’d fought off a nap, hoping to nix the last bit of jet lag holding me down, but as I chopped an onion with a sharpened chef’s knife, I began to rethink my decision. I curled the tips of my fingers under, protecting them from accidental amputation. “There are things about the world we don’t know, like if other life forms exist. Do you believe in aliens?”

  “I think it would be naive of the human race to assume we are the only intellectual beings in the universe. Is that the same thing?”

  “Sure, good enough.” I finished dicing the onion and moved on to a bulb of garlic. “What’s the difference between believing in ghosts and believing in aliens?”

  “Science,” Evelyn replied matter-of-factly. “It’s like you said, we don’t know everything. We’re constantly discovering something new, in the oceans, in space. As advanced as we are, we don’t have the tech to explore further.”

  “In that same vein, perhaps we don’t have the tech to discover that demons and ghosts are real yet?”

  Evelyn rolled her eyes. “I forgot you can debate your way out of any corner.”

  “It’s one of my best attributes.”

  “Debatable.”

  I lifted my wineglass in a toast to her. She responded by turning up the volume of her show. On the screen, a small man with narrow shoulders and enormous glasses that dwarfed his face crept through a dark alleyway.

  “He’s a goner,” Evelyn predicted.

  I couldn’t help but watch. As the man turned a blind corner, the camera angle flashed, and the killer whipped a knife across the character’s throat. Fake blood—too pale to be mistaken for the real thing—splattered across the alleyway in fat spurts. I wrinkled my nose.

  “That is not how blood moves when someone’s throat has been cut,” I said. “It spurts at first, but then it dribbles down. It doesn’t splash everywhere like that.”

  “I don’t like that you know that.”

  To avoid getting sucked into the unrealistic show, I put in my wireless headphones and propped my phone against the backsplash to watch the news. While I minced garlic, the same reporter from that morning gave me an update on the kill.

  “The police refused to give any more updates,” said the reporter, “after they announced there is no CCTV footage of the murder on Durward Street. Police are saying the cameras installed were not pointed in the right direction to capture the killer during this act of violence.”

  I drifted toward the window and looked at the street. From this height, I spied at least three sets of
cameras on Evelyn’s street alone, covering every angle. You couldn’t sneeze without those glass eyes watching you. It seemed impossible that a killer could get away with such an ostentatious act.

  I pulled my apron off over my head and dusted my hands. “Hey, Evelyn? I’ve got to run out real quick. I forgot thyme, and this dish doesn’t taste the same without it.”

  “Didn’t you buy that yesterday?”

  The thyme itself was perched on the shelf above the stove. I shoved the herbs into my back pocket. “I used it all. I’ll be back soon.”

  In the dribbling rain, I walked from Evelyn’s flat, past the nearby market. Alba’s warning not to go wandering around in the night and Baker’s advice to exercise common sense echoed in my head. Curiosity yelled the loudest, though. It nipped at my heels, herding me toward Durward Street. I should have been scared by how few blocks lay between the site of the murder and the place I was staying, but I didn’t feel like I was in danger. If the new Ripper stuck to his schedule, the Whitechapel locals wouldn’t need to worry for another week or so.

  The crime scene tape was gone. The police must have cleared all the evidence in the alleyway. If it wasn’t all over the news, I would have never known someone had been murdered here a few nights ago. I always expected something to linger—remorse or fear—but nothing triggered an emotion in me. It was just an alleyway.

  I looked up. At either end of the street, a set of CCTV cameras watched as people rushed home from work or ran errands. I stood in the same spot as I remembered the crime tape to be. From my location, two different lenses focused on me, glinting in the drizzle. A team might have come out here to adjust the cameras after the police discovered the blind spot. Or perhaps there had never been a blind spot.

  I caught a whiff of the crushed thyme in my pocket. It made me smell like a fresh herb garden. I checked the time. I’d been gone for twenty minutes. How much longer until Evelyn suspected I hadn’t gone to the market?

  Near Whitechapel Station, I found a bike for hire and rode to the nearby police station. Inside, no one paid me much attention. I tapped a uniformed constable on the shoulder.