A Buried Past

by Alexandria Clarke

  “I can see that,” she said. “Do you mind if we have a moment alone?”

  I left the sisters to catch up and immediately wished I hadn’t. Dad had returned from whatever errands he’d been running. He looked up as he took off his shoes by the door.

  “Is someone here?” he asked, spotting Marie’s overnight bag.

  “Evelyn’s sister flew in from the States to surprise her.”

  Dad nodded. We stood in awkward silence, unsure how to proceed.

  “I should get going—”

  “This is a perfect opportunity—” he said at the same time.

  We both fell quiet, waiting for the other person to finish their sentence.

  “You go,” I said.

  He cleared his throat. “I was saying this is a perfect opportunity for the two of us to do something together. Do you have anything in mind?”

  “Oh, shoot,” I said, doing my best to sound disappointed. “I would, but I have plans with someone in Oxford.”

  For the record, it was true. I wanted to track down Henry Alcott. With Marie entertaining Evelyn, I had some time to kill at Oxford. Henry’s name had popped up twice in conjunction with the Ripper case. First, he had been arrested for potential involvement in Rosie Brigham’s murder. Then, despite his airtight alibi, his name had shown up on the list of jasmine-scented shampoo buyers.

  Of course, I couldn’t tell my father my real plans. He would stop me from going and feed me a bitter, hour-long lecture I didn’t need to hear.

  “Ah.” He put his hands in his pockets and gazed across the skyline. His lower lip jutted out, an intentional hint to let me know of his chagrin. “Who are you going to meet? Anyone I know?”

  “Nadine Patel,” I lied. Hers was the first name that popped into my head. Besides, she was currently the only contact of mine at Oxford. “I’m not sure if you remember her. She was—”

  He snapped his fingers in recognition. “One of your mother’s students! Yes, she was great. A smart whip too. Your mother never stopped talking about her.” His smile widened. “How about I tag along? I’d love to see Nadine again.”

  Panic made my stomach flip-flop. “She’s not expecting two of us. I think she made reservations somewhere, and I doubt they can change them—”

  “Nonsense.” Dad unearthed a nicer sweater from his duffel bag, laid it flat, and tried to smooth the wrinkles out of it with the palms of his hands. “It’ll be fun to surprise her. We all used to go to dinner together whenever I was in town.” He pointed to my oversized T-shirt and raggedy jeans. “Are you wearing that? It’s not exactly up to Oxford’s standards.”

  After I changed into slacks, a gray cable knit sweater, and the warmest boots I owned, my father and I bid goodbye to Evelyn and Marie and headed to Oxford. While I drove, he went on and on about memories he had of Nadine, Mom, and the university itself. On any other day, I would have jumped for joy to hear stories about Mom, but I was too busy concocting escape plans to enjoy reliving the past.

  “Where are we meeting her?” he asked excitedly.

  I slowly roved the streets of Oxford. Usually, the complicated traffic patterns and lack of parking spots would have irritated me. Today, I was happy to have an excuse to stall for as long as possible. I drove circles around the historical buildings, hoping I’d never find an open place to park.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “We’re playing it by ear.”

  Because I was a big, fat liar.

  Dad pointed ahead of him. “There’s a parking spot. Quick, grab it before someone else pulls in!”

  “That spot’s tiny. I can’t damage the car. It’s Evelyn’s company car.”

  “There’s plenty of space. Go on then.”

  Hiding a sigh, I maneuvered the car into the space. Dad hopped out and flattened the wrinkles from his shirt. I pretended to type something on my phone, all the while wondering how the hell I would pull this off.

  “Let’s go.” Dad tapped the face of his watch. “We’re going to be late.”

  “Can’t be late for a fake date,” I muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” I said, moseying out of the car. “I’m ready.”

  With no heading, I walked in the general direction of a few pubs I knew were nearby. A hasty plan formed in my head. I would pick a restaurant to “meet” Nadine at, fake a phone call to her, and tell Dad she couldn’t make it. The trip to Oxford would be wasted—I couldn’t track Henry Alcott without giving my dad the slip, and ditching him wouldn’t do well for our already rocky relationship—but at least he wouldn’t know I was a liar with a serial killer obsession.

  “Did I ever tell you why your mother’s house smelled like death sometimes? One night, we’d gone out for a nice dinner and a show,” Dad prattled on. Oblivious to my discontent, he walked happily alongside me, beaming up at the familiar architecture. “We’d left Nadine to watch you, and when we came home, she was napping on the couch while you sprinkled pecorino romano across the carpets. The place smelled like rotting cheese for weeks.” He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s funny now, but it was terrible back then. Nadine felt horrible. I wonder if she remembers. I’ll have to ask her.”

  I had just decided on stopping at Bill’s Restaurant and Bar to pull off my ruse when, up ahead, an absolute miracle occurred. As if by some act of God, Nadine emerged from a stationery store, shoving a stack of new journals and a set of fresh pens into her oversized purse. When she looked up, I waved. She smiled, but when she spotted my father, she literally jumped with glee like an excited bunny rabbit and leapt into his arms.

  “Nathan Frye, is that you?” she demanded, pulling away. She adjusted my father’s collar and looked him up and down. “You’ve gained weight.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he said, patting his belly. His eyes glowed with warmth. The sight made my stomach sink; Dad hadn’t looked at me with such love in a stunning number of years. “I’m so happy we’re having lunch today.”

  The panic returned and overwhelmed the sadness. As Nadine shot a questioning look at me, I mimed from behind Dad’s back. Eyes wide, I brought my hand up to my throat, made a “cut it out” gesture, and mouthed, “Please.”

  Nadine, as perfect a human being as she was, went along with it. She switched on her high beams and took Dad by the arm. “I had no idea you were joining us, but I’m so happy. We agreed on Bill’s. Right, Jack?”

  I rushed to fall into step beside them, stunned by Nadine’s willingness to save me. “Bill’s it is. It’s right up there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we all shared a table at Bill’s Restaurant and Bar, but if anyone looked over at us, they surely wondered why only two of us participated in the conversation. Dad and Nadine had so much to catch up on that they barely spoke to me. As they swapped stories about working in academia, past encounters, and Mom, I sipped water and nibbled free bread like a bored teenager.

  “Do you remember when that terrible undergraduate student of hers threw a wad of cow manure across the classroom?” Nadine asked, chuckling as she daintily sipped wine.

  My father wheezed with laughter and turned bright red. “Priya almost killed that boy. I’ll never forget that day.”

  “I’ll never forget Professor Pearson, picking up a fistful of poo in her bare hand, smearing it across that student’s essay, and telling him that’s what he might as well have turned in because his diction was so poor.”

  They howled with laughter while I disguised a gag. When the food arrived, I wolfed my warm chicken salad too fast. Minutes later, my stomach protested such an abrupt feeding. I excused myself to the toilet. When I came out, I caught sight of Dad laughing uproariously at something else Nadine had said. I grabbed a passing busboy.

  “Is there a back exit?” I asked him. “I parked on the next street over.”

  He pointed. “Through there.”

  With one last look at Nadine and Dad, I slipped out of the restaurant and into the streets. On my phone, I searched Henry Alcott’s name
and clicked on the first link that appeared: his Facebook page, which told me everything I needed to know. Henry lived in a dorm room nearby, so I made a beeline for the building. In the courtyard, I parked myself on a bench and settled in to wait.

  At the top of the hour, I spotted Henry as he returned from his last morning class. My suspicions fell through when I saw him in person. He was smaller than he’d looked on the news, no taller than five feet and ten inches. Additionally, his hair was darker than the killer’s. Henry Alcott was certainly not the man I’d spotted in Mitre Passage two weeks ago. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to talk to him.

  “Henry!” I called, getting to my feet.

  He looked me over as I approached him. “Sorry, do we have a class together or something? I don’t recognize you.”

  “I’m not a student.” I shook his hand. “My name is Jacqueline Frye. I’m a private investigator working on the Whitechapel murders.”

  Henry quickly withdrew. “Look, the police have searched every inch of my dorm room and questioned me and my friends multiple times about that night. I wasn’t there. I was in a study session with a bunch of other people. I didn’t kill anyone—”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  His eyebrows rose. “Oh. Why did you track me down, then?”

  “I wanted to know why the police arrested you in the first place,” I said. “Why would they think you were in Whitechapel if you were here, nearly two hours away? Did someone give them the wrong information?”

  Henry hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders. “They found a strand of hair on the victim’s sweater. Apparently, when they did a DNA test, it belonged to me.”

  “Did you know Rosie Brigham? Had you ever met her before?”

  “Not once,” he replied. “I hadn’t heard of her before the police barged into my dorm and arrested me for murder.”

  “So you have no idea how a strand of your hair ended up on her sweater?”

  “I know how it looks,” he said uneasily. “I see people whispering at me as I pass by. They think I’m lying. They’re all convinced I was involved with Rosie or something like that. You can ask my friends. They’ll tell you I haven’t been to Whitechapel in months. I didn’t kill—” His voice shook. He hid the quaver behind a cough and tried again. “I didn’t hurt Rosie. I’m not like that. I don’t know who would do something so terrible.”

  His slumped shoulders, glum expression, and dimpled chin were enough to convince me, along with the fact that he didn’t match the physical description of the murderer.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Did you buy jasmine shampoo from Harrods recently?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he answered. “Jasmine is a bit girly, if you ask me. The lads would take the mick out of me if I started smelling like flowers.”

  “Harrods has your name and card on file for the shampoo.”

  His brow furrowed. “Do they? I’ll have to let the bank know—oh,” he said suddenly, as if recalling a memory. “My sister borrowed my card for lunch when she came to visit. She accidentally locked her wallet and keys in her car that day. She must have bought the shampoo.”

  My teeth clenched together as I watched another lead go down the drain. I mustered a smile. “All right, Henry. Thanks for talking to me. I appreciate it.”

  “Sure thing. I hope you catch the guy. He deserves a bit of torture.”

  With that, Henry Alcott—and all my hunches—disappeared into the dormitory building.

  Back at Bill’s Restaurant and Bar, Dad and Nadine hadn’t moved from their table, but their smiles and happy chatting had been replaced with low whispers and worried looks. When Dad spotted me, his scrunched brow relaxed.

  “There you are,” he said. “What happened to you? You’ve been gone for ages.”

  I grimaced and clutched my stomach. “Guess lunch didn’t agree with me.”

  “I checked the toilets for you,” Nadine said. “You weren’t in there.”

  “I went for a walk,” I added. “The fresh air did me well. I’m feeling much better.”

  Dad gave me a cumbersome one-armed hug. “Stay here. I’ll pull the car around so you don’t have to trek all the way back to our parking spot. Nadine, it was great to see you. Hopefully, it won’t be so long until the next time we meet.”

  They hugged goodbye, and Nadine kept her smile intact until my father had left the restaurant and walked past the windows. Then she came down hard on me.

  “As much of a pleasure as it was catching up with your dad, I would love to know what’s going on,” she said firmly. “We did not have lunch planned today, and I don’t appreciate being messed around.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She crossed her arms. “You didn’t have a stomachache, did you?”

  “I did,” I assured her, “but it wasn’t as bad as I made it sound. I needed to talk to a friend, but I didn’t want my dad tagging along. It was personal, so I used you as an excuse. That’s all.”

  Her manner softened ever so slightly. “Your dad mentioned you had a hard time adjusting after your mother died. Is that true?”

  I looked away from her prying eyes. “It’s true of most any child who’s lost a parent. Wouldn’t you think?”

  “I’m not asking other children. I’m asking you.” She sighed when I didn’t answer. “You were always a bright kid, Jack, but you had a knack for getting into trouble. Please don’t tell me you’ve carried that knack into adulthood. All this Ripper talk—”

  “Dad told you?”

  “He touched on it,” she clarified. “I guessed that you buried yourself in it. After finding your blog, it was pretty obvious you were channeling the pain of losing your mother into these crazy investigations of yours.”

  At Nadine’s superior tone, a flash of anger rose within me. “No offense, Nadine, but I don’t need your assessment of my mental health. I know what I’m doing.”

  I spun on my heel, intent on leaving her in the dust, but she caught me by the elbow. On a paper napkin, she used one of her new pens to write a number.

  “If you want to put a stop to all this nonsense, call this number,” she said, handing me the napkin. “Don’t throw that out. You’ll regret it if you do.”

  “Whose number is it?”

  “Find out.” She shrugged. “Or don’t. But if you want answers, and maybe some peace, you should call. Life shouldn’t have to be as hard as you’re making it for yourself, Jack.” She swiftly kissed my cheek as she shouldered her purse. “I hope to see you soon, love.”

  18

  In the days that followed our trip to Oxford, life gradually returned to some semblance of normality. Marie grew bored with the cramped flat, the constant gray drizzle, and the general lack of excitement in London. She and Evelyn bickered often, and I spent more time in the café across the street to avoid their petty arguments than I did taking care of Evelyn.

  One morning, Marie emerged from the bedroom with her bag in hand. She wore her travel outfit: tight jeans, a white button-up shirt, and a heavy coat for all weather occasions. Unlike me, who preferred to fly across oceans in my pajamas, Marie dressed to impress the flight attendants and whoever else might see her.

  “I’m off,” she announced, plane ticket in hand. “The airline was able to upgrade me to first class. Isn’t that swell?” She kissed my cheek, leaving lipstick reside behind. “Take care of her, will you? She’s stubborn. Then again, so are you. I suppose I shouldn’t depend on either of you tossers.”

  “I’ll make sure she’s okay,” I promised. “Don’t worry.”

  “I always worry about Evelyn,” Marie said. “She has a knack for getting into trouble.”

  The words hung in the air like heavy fog. Nadine’s voice echoed in my head, repeating the exact same phrase. Perhaps Evelyn and I were friends for more than one reason.

  I walked Marie to the door. “Have a safe flight.”

  She bent in half to give me a quick hug. “Come to my wedding. Evelyn’s going to be a drag, but
she won’t be as horrible if you’re there. Promise me?”

  “I promise.”

  She cast a longing look at Evelyn’s closed bedroom. “Bless her stupid heart. Laters, love. Tell her I’ll text her when the plane lands.”

  As soon as Marie was gone, Evelyn emerged from the separate room, as if she’d been waiting for her sister to leave before coming out.

  “She said—” I began.

  “She’ll text when the plane lands. She told me five times already.” Evelyn walked to the window and gazed at the ground, watching as her sister got into a car and drove off. “I love her, but she drives me mad. And this flat is too small for four people.”

  That was overwhelmingly true. With Marie and Evelyn sharing the bedroom, I had been sleeping on the couch, and Dad was on an air mattress set up next to the windows. Every night, he complained how cold it was next to the glass. No matter how many times I reminded him he could go home whenever he wanted, he’d stubbornly remained in London.

  But leaving was in the air. Marie’s quick visit must have acted as a reminder to Dad of his life beyond London. The next morning, I came out to see he had packed all his belongings, deflated the air mattress, and neatly folded the towels and sheets he’d been using.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I’m heading home,” he announced. “The university called. They want me back in classes. Besides, I miss my wife. We’ve never been apart for this long before.”

  Stowing my feelings about his wife, I said, “It’s about damn time.”

  He grinned and rustled my hair as he did when I was a child. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Jack, but I know when I’m not wanted.”

  When his grin faded to a sad smile, I hugged him. Like always, the embrace didn’t hold everything I wanted to convey with it. Too many years had passed for us to be completely comfortable with each other. Still, it mattered.