“It’s not that,” I promised. “This flat is tiny, and it’s been too crowded for Evelyn to focus on her recovery. I’m here to help her, not catch up with my dad.”
“I understand.” With a grunt, he lifted his duffel bag. “But you have to promise not to be a stranger anymore. Call me. Technology is too advanced for us not to keep in touch.”
“I promise. Can I give you a ride to the airport?”
“I called a car. Thanks, honey.”
I walked him to the door with a sinking feeling in my chest. I’d been waiting for him to leave, but now that the time had actually come, I didn’t like the idea of him going. When would I see him again, and would I ever get time alone with him? If I went to visit him in DC, it would be in the presence of his new family.
“Bye, Dad,” I said.
He smiled at me, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Bye, honey.”
As the elevator took him away, I wiped a tear from my cheek.
With Dad gone and my case at yet another dead end, I focused all my energy on Evelyn. Her constant improvement was all that kept my mind off the things I couldn’t help but worry about. When the Ripper murders popped into my head, I helped Evelyn learn how to cook pasta one-handed. When memories of my mother crept up on me, I asked Evelyn if she wanted to look for a new book at one of the local stores in Whitechapel. After a while, she caught on to my renewed dedication.
“Everything okay?” she asked one day as she tried to brush out her wet hair after a shower. “You seem mighty focused on me.”
“That’s why I’m here, right?”
“Yeah, but you don’t seem like yourself. You seem… dull.”
I scoffed. “Wow, thanks.”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “You’ve been distant ever since your dad left, not talking about anything you usually talk about. Whatever happened with the Ripper case? Is it over? I haven’t heard anything on the news about it in a while.”
I had intentionally stopped watching the news. Each time I saw another story about the Whitechapel killer, a pit of depression grew in my stomach and expanded outward, coloring my entire world an ugly shade of gray.
“I don’t know.” I took the brush from her, turned her around, and began untangling the wet knots in her hair. “I stopped caring about it.”
“Oh, please. What’s the real story?”
I pressed my lips together and focused on her hair, brushing it out from the bottom so it wouldn’t pull on her scalp. Evelyn, her impeccable senses finely tuned to my settings, turned to check on me.
“Jack,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”
My chin quivered, and I willed myself not to cry. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t have a purpose. Dad’s gone back to his new family. My mom’s gone. The investigation is pointless, and it keeps getting me into trouble.”
Unable to keep a hold on my emotions, I broke down. Evelyn guided my head into her lap and stroked my hair as I cried. She didn’t say anything to make me feel better, but I didn’t need words. I just needed someone to be there for me.
Sometime later, we ordered a pizza and watched a movie together. As we laughed at a dumb comedy, I momentarily forgot about the things bothering me. But when the credits rolled and Evelyn tossed her last pizza crust into the box, she decided to remind me.
“I thought of something,” she announced, dusting her hands. “This whole Ripper thing—nobody has any leads on the killer, right? It’s like he vanishes into thin air after he attacks. I mean, the police should have found him after you saved Eira Kent. They were right there!”
The pizza turned in my stomach. “I thought we weren’t talking about the Ripper anymore.”
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she admitted. “Remember when you first got here and we went on that tour? You were arguing with the tour guide about who the original Ripper might have been. The guy you were talking about—Carl Fueng—”
“Carl Feigenbaum,” I corrected without enthusiasm.
“Yeah, him,” Evelyn went on. “He was a merchant sailor, right? That’s why he could have gotten away with the crimes. He went back to his ship, and the police didn’t bother to search the docks for him. What if your Ripper lives on a boat too? It’s a lot easier to disappear when your home base floats, right?”
A quick Internet search provided some much-needed information. In London, a houseboat license required owners to move from one mooring to the next every two weeks. Few people remained at one mooring for much longer, as the fees to do so were too expensive. Three moorings were close enough to Whitechapel to warrant an investigation: one near the Tower Bridge, one in Limehouse, and one on Regent’s Canal to the north. I called all three, asking a few select questions.
After my third call, Evelyn tapped the fingers of her good hand against the countertop with poorly disguised impatience. “Well?” she asked. “What did you find out?”
“Two boats have been moored at those locations between August 31st—the date of the first murder—and now,” I reported, showing Evelyn the notes I’d taken. “The Dark Dawn and the Mouse Killer.”
Evelyn wrinkled her nose. “Whatever happened to classy boat names?”
“Got me,” I said. “Both boats are still located at Talavera Moorings on the canal.”
“Are you going to go there and check it out?”
I tossed my notes aside. “I’m not sure. I’ve gotten myself into plenty of trouble with this already.”
Evelyn’s face fell. “I thought you’d be more excited about another lead.”
“It’s probably a dead end,” I said. “I don’t see the point of following up with it.”
“But the autumn of terror isn’t over yet.”
I shot her a questioning look.
She opened her laptop and turned it around for me to see. The Wikipedia page for Jack the Ripper was on the screen. “I looked up the dates of the canonical five. The fifth victim was found on November ninth. That’s two weeks away. What if you don’t check out these houseboats and someone else gets killed?”
“It’s not my fault the police can’t do their jobs,” I said glumly. “Don’t blame me for some hypothetical murder that hasn’t happened yet. I’m going for a shower.”
“Hold on right there.” She yanked me onto the sofa and held me captive. I struggled to free myself, but Evelyn was stronger than me regardless of how many arms she had at her disposal. “You gotta snap out of it, Jack. I know I was hard on you before, but that’s because I was worried you would get hurt. Now, I think you’re the only person who’s smart enough to catch this arsehole.”
“It’s not my place,” I replied. “I’m not a real investigator.”
“But you have made real strides in this case,” she reminded me, loosening her grip around my neck. “Maybe you should be a P.I. You’ve got the stones for it.”
I tried again to pull away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She clasped me around the waist to keep me in place. “I’m not being ridiculous. I’m serious. Go investigate the houseboats, Jack. If it turns out to be another dead end, I’ll forget you had anything to do with the Ripper in the first place.”
I grumbled under my breath. It was raining again. The last thing I wanted to do was traipse out into the damp afternoon to ask about a damned boat.
“Don’t do it for yourself,” Evelyn advised. “Do it for the Ripper’s next victim.”
The Dark Dawn was a long, low houseboat painted the same dark color—somewhere between gray and navy—as the canal water. A crisp breeze whipped cold mist across my cheeks. I balanced on the docks and leaned over to knock on the houseboat’s door. After a moment, it slid open.
An elderly woman with short white hair, fluffy slippers, and enormous glasses peered up at me. “Has it been two weeks already? I could have sworn we just moved.”
“I’m not from the mooring, ma’am,” I said.
She warily narrowed the opening to her fl
oating home. “What do you want with us, then? We don’t rent our boat to tourists. You people need to stop asking.”
“I’m not a tourist either,” I replied. “Well, I suppose I sort of am, but that’s not the point.”
Once more, I introduced myself as a private investigator. This time, I handed the older woman a business card that Evelyn had easily designed in a handy graphics program and printed on a spare bit of card stock. Though the card wasn’t equivalent to a P.I. license, it made me seem more legitimate to the people I questioned.
“I called the mooring companies, and I realized your boat has been docked around Whitechapel since August 31,” I said.
“So?”
“A man was murdered on August 31, not far from here,” I told her. “I have reason to believe the person responsible for the murder lives on a houseboat.”
The little old lady let out an incredulous, “Ha!” Then she said, “Certainly not on ours! Why don’t you come in? I’ll prove it to you.”
I ducked my head and stepped cautiously across the small gap between the dock and the boat. Like the outside, the inside of the houseboat was long and low. Fortunately, I was short enough not to bump my head on the ceiling, but Evelyn wouldn’t have been so lucky.
“I’m Harriet,” the woman finally disclosed. “This is my husband, Harry.”
Harry sat so quietly in the far corner of the room that I didn’t notice him until she pointed him out. He raised a hand in greeting but didn’t bother to get up.
“Harry and Harriet,” I said. “That’s cute.”
“Why?” Harriet asked.
“Because you sort of have the same name.”
Her nose crinkled. “No, we don’t.”
“Never mind.”
Harriet filled an electric kettle and switched it on. “Anyway, this is our home. Those are our papers.” She pointed to a small desk piled high with paperwork. “Anything you want to know about us is right over there. Have a look.”
I shuffled through the stacks of records and files. Harriet and her husband did not possess the organizational skills necessary to live in such a small, cramped space. Every bill, letter, and form they’d ever received had been dumped on top of the desk. I pulled one from the bottom of the stack dated 1978. Their whole life, at least from the time they were married, was on that desk. Photos of their boat through the years hung on the walls. I noticed a hospital bill for Harry and picked it up to examine it.
“He’s paralyzed from the waist down,” Harriet said over my shoulder, making me jump. I hadn’t realized she was behind me. “It happened a few years ago. He was trying to make repairs to the boat and fell off. We thought he might not make it.” She spoke loudly, as if her husband wasn’t right here, listening to her talk about him. She lifted her own hand, displaying a tremble. “And I’ve got the shakes. Neither one of us is much up to killing anyone these days.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Would you like some tea?”
As I accepted a warm mug from her, I asked, “You were moored near Tower Bridge on August 31st, right?”
“I believe so,” Harriet replied, lowering herself into a chair next to her husband. “We move quite a bit. It’s cheaper that way, and I’m afraid cheap is the only thing we can afford now.”
“Are you familiar with any other people who live along the Thames or this canal?” I asked. “Any neighbors that do the same thing you do?”
“Sure, plenty of people,” Harriet said. “But we don’t all keep to the same schedule. Sam and Elton are up the river a bit. Eli and Sherry just left here. Nancy—”
“I don’t need all their names,” I cut in, suddenly wondering what purgatory was like. “But if you noticed a specific boat near yours, I’d like to know. Maybe with a single person living there?”
Harriet stared blankly at me.
“What about the Mouse Killer?”
“The what?”
“The boat moored across the way,” I said. “It was also docked at the same moorings that you and your husband have been at for the last several weeks.”
Harriet sipped her tea. “Oh, that old thing. Sorry, my eyesight is too terrible to read boat names anymore.”
“Do you know who owns it?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“I’m pulling teeth here, Harriet.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
I took a deep breath to steady my patience. “You must have seen someone around the Mouse Killer.”
“Sure, a towering tow-headed lad.”
My pulse pounded. “A tall blonde man?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Thanks, Harriet!”
I set my untouched tea on the nearest counter and let myself off the Dark Dawn. In my haste, I almost slipped off the dock and into the canal. My shoe got caught between the dock and the boat. As I wrenched my shoe free, a boat engine started nearby. I sprinted up the dock as a houseboat chugged steadily away from the shore. I didn’t need to see the name printed on the stern to know which one it was.
By the time I arrived home, it was dark, and I was tired, but the evening’s surprises weren’t over yet. Evelyn waited up for me, and as soon as I saw the look on her face, I knew something was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked wearily. I kicked my boots off, too exhausted to bend down to take them off the right way. “What now?”
“A package came for you.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
I lifted an eyebrow at her odd, stiff manner. “Evelyn, what’s going on? Did you open the package?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so? Were you worried I’d be mad?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s—hard to explain.”
I spotted the box in question on the counter and went over to it. “Fine, I’ll look myself.”
“No, Jack. It’s gross—”
I popped open the cardboard and immediately dropped the package when I saw what was inside. The box hit the floor and fell on its side. Out rolled half of a human kidney.
19
I quickstepped away from the organ, dancing on my toes to escape its wayward route. When it came to a stop, I leaned over and examined it. Evelyn joined me.
“Is it real?” Evelyn asked, holding her breath.
“I think so.”
“Is it… human?”
“Definitely.”
Evelyn made a short gagging noise. I reached to pick up the kidney, but she swatted my hand away. “What are you doing?”
“It’s preserved.” I dodged around her and collected the kidney from the floor. “Dried out. See?”
I tossed it to her. She yelped, hot-potatoed it in her good hand, and threw it onto the kitchen counter. The kidney rolled to a stop against a container of utensils.
“Great, we’ll have to sanitize everything,” Evelyn grumbled. “Who would send you a kidney?”
“The killer,” I answered easily. “There should be a letter too.” I rummaged in the box and located an old-school envelope sealed with red wax. Breaking the wax, I pulled the letter out, unfolded it, and read it aloud. “From Hell. Miss Frye, ma’am. I send you half the kidney I took from one woman and preserved it for you. The other piece, I fried and ate. It was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a while longer. Signed, Catch me when you can, Miss Frye.”
Evelyn daintily took the letter between her thumb and forefinger to read it for herself. “This is mad. Why would they do this?”
“Because it’s what the original Ripper did. Supposedly,” I added. “The police got a ton of letters from ‘the killer.’ It’s one of the reasons the Ripper became such a legend in the first place. The From Hell letter is one of the few that might have been genuine. It wasn’t signed with the pseudonym, nor was it addressed to the police.”
“Then who was it addressed to?”
“George Lusk,” I replied. “The chairman of the White
chapel Vigilance Committee. In 1888, the committee posted around Whitechapel, using Lusk’s name to ask locals for information on the killer.”
“So the killer obliged,” Evelyn guessed.
“We’ll never really know if the original From Hell letter was legitimate.” I scooped the preserved kidney back into the cardboard box. “But this certainly might be. We need to get this to the police.”
“What does this mean?” she asked. “The kidney being sent here?”
The flat’s address was written on the top of the box in the same angled handwriting as the letter. For some reason, I felt like I should have recognized the killer’s flashy script. The police, certainly, would have the means of matching the handwriting to a suspect.
“It means the killer knows I’m tracking him.”
Evelyn and I returned to the police station with the kidney and letter in tow. The constables were in a frenzied state, thrashing about the station like a pack of hungry sharks around a bucket of chum. For all my polite excuse-mes, I could not for the life of me get any of the officers to notice we were standing there.
Evelyn made herself taller, if that was possible, by lifting her chin and broadening her shoulders. She stepped right into the path of a passing officer. When he accidentally bumped into her healing shoulder, she grimaced but held firm.
“Sorry, miss.” The officer, shorter and younger than Evelyn, had to look up to see her. “Didn’t see you there.”
Evelyn blocked him again as he tried to step around her. “We’ve been waiting to talk to someone. Are you free?”
“Decidedly not,” replied the officer. “Perhaps you saw the news this morning. Big robbery not far from here. Everyone’s on it. In fact, I’m late—”
Once more, he tried to step around Evelyn. This time, she planted a heavy boot on the toes of his right foot, clamping him in place. It took him a moment to realize this was intentional, and when he did, he grew indignant.
“Miss, I am an officer of the law!” he said. “Remove your foot at once!”
Evelyn did not oblige his request or bother to hide her amusement at the young copper’s attempt at authority. “My friend received a package last night containing a letter and part of a human kidney,” she said. “We think it has to do with the recent Whitechapel murders. When I remove my boot from your toes, you will scurry off and find whoever is in charge of the investigation and bring that person to us.”
A Buried Past Page 21