A Buried Past

by Alexandria Clarke

  The young officer, red-faced, nodded his assent. Evelyn lifted her foot, and he promptly ran off. I gazed admiringly up at Evelyn.

  “What?” she grunted.

  “I love you.”

  “Be quiet.”

  A minute later, the officer returned with none other than Chief Inspector Baker in tow. Like the constables, he had an air of haste about him. He also had crumbs in his mustache. When he saw me, he released a dramatic groan.

  “You again?” he said. “Haven’t you asked for enough trouble already? You’re driving my officers mad. I had to suspend Stowick for barking up the wrong tree so many times.”

  I offered him the package. “Brought you a present.”

  He eyed the box warily. “Is it a bomb?”

  “I’m hoping it’s evidence.”

  Baker lifted the cardboard flaps and peered inside. His eyes widened. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “A kidney and a From Hell letter?” I confirmed for him. “You bet. You want it or not?”

  He quickly closed the box and tucked it under his arm. “My team tells me you often pose as some kind of amateur investigator. Why didn’t you keep this for yourself?”

  “Because as much as I know about the Ripper, I’m not an investigator.” It felt good to say those words out loud, as if I was finally letting myself off the hook for everything I hadn’t been able to figure out yet. “You also need to know that the Ripper probably lives on a houseboat called the Mouse Killer.”

  Baker smirked. “The Mouse Killer?”

  “I went to where it was moored last night,” I explained. “The boat left the dock as soon as I started walking up to it.”

  “And?”

  “And I have reason to believe it’s because the owner of said boat didn’t want me to know who they were.”

  Baker’s patronizing grin widened as he patted me on the shoulder as if I were a five-year-old in need of praise and a sticker. “Good job, miss. We’ll take it from here and check out this Mouse Killer. Have a nice day.”

  “But—”

  Baker vanished with my evidence under his arm. We were ushered out of the station by a crowd of officers on their way to the robbery scene. When one of them caught the heel of my shoe and popped it off my foot, the short stop caused me to trip up. Evelyn caught me with one hand and steadied me.

  “You did the right thing,” she said, automatically knowing that my long face wasn’t because of the misstep. “The police will take care of it. Put it from your mind.”

  For a week, I was determined to take her advice. I spared no thoughts for the Mouse Killer, the Ripper, or the investigation. Evelyn and I went about our daily routines. Since she was bored out of her mind, she began to work from home. The Wagner Company kept her busy behind her laptop. Because of her security clearance, she wasn’t permitted to tell me what kind of things she did on her computer, but I didn’t much care. Though she wasn’t quite back on her feet yet, it was good to see her so excited about work again. Even if she didn’t get all shoulder functionality back, it was a relief to know the Wagner Company would continue to employ her.

  Meanwhile, I updated my blog. A good deal of my followers had abandoned me, annoyed I hadn’t posted content in two months. I wrote several long posts on the Ripper case and my time in London then queued them to release one at a time over the next couple of weeks. In a few short days, my admirers returned to catch up on my travels in England.

  When I had nothing to do for myself and nothing to help Evelyn with, I often caught myself staring at the mysterious phone number scribbled on Nadine’s paper napkin. Every time I went to dial it, my fingers trembled. I never completed the call. Finally, I shoved the napkin into a drawer, where I wouldn’t have to look at it every day.

  The days passed without any updates on the Ripper. The reporters had all but forgotten about the Whitechapel murders, content to cover robberies, car accidents, and drug incidents instead. London, too, had calmed, as it had in the lull between Rosie Brigham’s murder and the Double Event. November ninth, the date of the last canonical murder, rapidly approached, and no one seemed in the least prepared for it.

  I did not hear from Chief Inspector Baker, so it was a mystery whether or not he had investigated the Mouse Killer houseboat as I had advised. Considering his reaction at the station, I suspected he had not. Word of the kidney and the accompanying letter also went by the wayside. If the police bothered to identify whom the kidney belonged to, they did not release the information to the public. I half-wished I’d done as Baker said and kept the kidney and letter for myself. At least I would have tried to make something of the macabre hint.

  One weekend, Evelyn and I decided to take a break from work and have a play date in London. We had brunch then went on a touristy boat ride along the Thames. While foreigners took pictures of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, Evelyn and I sat back to enjoy the weather. The sun was out for once, shining as if the city of London hadn’t been haunted by mysterious homicides for the last two months.

  As we passed by Tower Bridge, I spotted several houseboats docked along the riverside. A rusted sign advertised an open spot for Riverside Moorings. The name jogged my memory. This was where the Mouse Killer was docked on August 31st, right around the corner from the first murder site.

  “Stop!” I shot to my feet, waving to get the attention of the tour guide and accidentally knocking Evelyn’s drink out of her hands. “I need to get off.”

  The tour guide, an older woman wearing a whaling jacket and a bucket hat like we were about to sail into Niagara Falls, halted her speech about the bridge. “We’re in the middle of a tour. You can’t get off until we get back to the dock.”

  “I’m gonna puke,” I announced.

  “Pull over!” the tour guide shouted.

  The boat veered to the right, and the crowd parted to avoid my imaginary plague as Evelyn and I made our way to the shore. Evelyn easily hopped across to solid ground and pulled me on land. The boat went on its way, its passengers relieved I hadn’t blown chunks during the tour.

  “What the hell was that about?” Evelyn asked.

  “Follow me.” I picked my way through the tall, wet grass along the riverside. Mud clung to my shoes with long, crooked fingers and climbed up to the legs of my pants. I kept walking until I reached a small office with a smaller window.

  I tapped the glass to wake the attendant—a pimply teenaged boy—inside. His cheek dropped off his hand, and he snorted as he jerked awake. He slid the window aside.

  “Welcome to Riverside Moorings,” he said robotically. “Looking for a spot to rent? We’re the cheapest location in the heart of London with the best view of Tower Bridge. My name’s Trevor, and I’m happy to help you—”

  “I’m not here to rent,” I said. “I’m looking for someone. What can you tell me about a boat called the Mouse Killer? It was moored at your location at the end of August.”

  Trevor wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not supposed to give out people’s personal information.”

  I fished several colorful bills from my pocket and slid them through the window. “What about for fifty pounds?”

  The money vanished, and the teenager beamed. “I’m happy to help.” He pulled a record book from beneath his desk and flipped it open to the month of August. “Let’s see here. The Mouse Killer was docked here between August 18th and the 31st.”

  “Who filled out the paperwork for it?” I asked.

  His index finger scanned the page. “My mum’s made a note here that the owner registered for the spot online. That’s a different set of records.”

  “Do you have access to them?”

  He shook his head. “No, Mum keeps them on her computer at home.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Do you remember where the boat was docked?”

  “The Mouse Killer?” Trevor poked his tongue into his cheek, thinking about the question. He squinted down the river. “Big ugly one, was it? I think it was parked at
the end of the mooring, right on the edge.”

  “Did you ever see anyone come or go from it?”

  “Not during the day,” he said. “But when my mom made me take night shifts, I saw the owner plenty of times. I figured he worked nights or something.”

  “What did he look like?”

  Trevor shrugged. “No idea. It was always dark when I saw him. He was a tall fellow. I remember that.”

  I turned to Evelyn. “It had to have been the Ripper, right?”

  “I do think it’s odd no one’s ever seen the Mouse Killer’s owner in plain sight,” Evelyn agreed. “Do you think the other moorings have better records?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  We thanked Trevor and found a picnic table under a tree to make a few calls. This time around, I knew which boat to ask about.

  “Hello, Nancy,” I said to the woman who picked up the phone for the first mooring company. “I’m looking for information on someone who docked their boat at your location. What can you tell me about the Mouse Killer?”

  As with Trevor, it took some convincing before Nancy agreed to check her records. When she did, it was another disappointment.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Frye,” she said kindly. “We don’t seem to have any contact information for the owner of the Mouse Killer. I’m not sure how that happened. One of our other employees must have made a mistake.”

  “The information was never entered?” I asked.

  “No, we have the Mouse Killer on file,” Nancy answered. “But the information has disappeared. It might be a problem with our system, though we haven’t lost anything else.”

  I knew it wasn’t a problem with Nancy’s system or a mistake of another employee. When I called the third mooring company—the one along the canal where the Mouse Killer had recently disappeared from—they encountered the same problem: any information on the Mouse Killer had mysteriously vanished from their records.

  “Something’s up,” I said, hanging up with the third company. “The owner of the Mouse Killer must have the ability to get into these companies’ record systems. There’s no explanation for why else his details would be erased from all three moorings.”

  “It checks out,” Evelyn said. “Think about the CCTV issues the police have been having.”

  “The killer has a hacking background,” I concluded. “He was able to delete the footage from the murders and alter the footage from the night I was in Mitre Square!” I gasped with the excitement of a breakthrough. “No wonder no one’s been able to track him down! He’s erased himself from cyberspace.”

  “Yet another piece of an unfinished puzzle,” Evelyn said. “We still have to figure out who owns that boat. Think we can track it down?”

  She adjusted her shoulder sling and winced. She’d lost a bit of color from her cheeks too. I recognized the signs of her overexertion.

  “No,” I said firmly. “Let’s go home.”

  While Evelyn rested, I collected all the pieces of my investigation, beginning with my first night in London. From there, I went over every single detail one more time. I reread theories and skimmed books. I re-watched documentaries and recorded discussions between professional historians and detectives. I refreshed my memory on the original Ripper case, determined to find the one detail that would connect the Mouse Killer to the Whitechapel murders. At three o’clock in the morning, I finally discovered it.

  “Mary Pearcey!” I shouted, stomping into the bedroom.

  Evelyn, dead asleep, woke with a startled yelp. She rubbed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  I leapt onto the bed and set my laptop on her blanket to show her the article I found. “Mary Pearcey is one of the original Ripper suspects because she murdered her lover’s wife and child in a similar way. When the police tried to question her about the blood on the walls of the house, she told them she was trying to kill mice. Get it?”

  “The mouse killer,” Evelyn muttered sleepily. “I get it. But who owns the boat?”

  “Someone who thinks Mary Pearcey was the real Ripper,” I said. “Someone who believed a woman was capable of those murders. Someone deep in Ripper lore.”

  A loud knock startled both of us. Evelyn grabbed her bedside baton and peered past me.

  “Who would come here at three o’clock in the morning?” I whispered.

  Evelyn slipped out from beneath the covers, put on her slippers, and crept from the room. She held the baton aloft. I followed her to the living room, where she stopped to stare at something on the floor.

  Someone had slid a letter beneath the flat’s door. I stooped to pick it up and opened it.

  “From Hell,” I read, my heart pounding. “Dear Miss Frye. Your investigations have caused me a fair amount of trouble. I feel it is only appropriate to reward you for your admirable attempts to identify me. Meet me at Miller’s Court off Dorset Street at midnight on November ninth. I trust you know where that is. Signed, the Ripper.”

  20

  “You can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s an invitation to your own death, Jack!”

  We stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, as we had done for the last several days while we argued about the same subject over and over. It was November eighth. That night, I had a date with the Ripper.

  Evelyn’s voice trembled with fear and anger that she tried to keep hidden. “I thought we talked about this. Go to the police. Show them the letter. Let them meet the Ripper tonight.”

  “We tried that with the kidney,” I reminded her. “Look what happened. They never followed up with the lead, and the killer is still on the loose. If I don’t go tonight, he’s going to pick someone else. I have a responsibility.”

  “To do what?” she challenged. “Sacrifice yourself?”

  “I don’t plan to die tonight, Ev.”

  She sank onto a stool and rested her forehead in her hands. “I wish I’d never invited you here. If I’d let Wagner assign some random nurse to take care of me two months ago, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

  “There’s no turning back time,” I said. “You can look at it that way, but I see things from a different perspective. Maybe I was meant to be here in Whitechapel when all of this stuff was happening.”

  “That’s bollocks, and you know it. Fate isn’t real.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what you choose to believe. I’m meeting the Ripper tonight whether you like it or not. If you want to go to the cops, be my guest.”

  Evelyn groaned and banged her forehead on the counter. “I literally can’t let you go, Jack. I will tie you to the bed before I allow you to leave here and get yourself killed.”

  I picked up a bright-red apple and bit into it with a loud crunch. “Sounds kinky.”

  She gave me a sour look. “I’m serious. Drop it.”

  I lifted the apple in a gesture of innocence. “Fine. It’s dropped, but only if you make me a promise.”

  “It’s never straightforward with you, is it?”

  “If the Ripper kills someone else tonight, I’m not leaving London until he’s caught,” I said. “I don’t care if your shoulder miraculously heals tomorrow. You’re stuck with me until the police have the killer in custody.” I thought it’d be a no-brainer for her, but Evelyn pursed her lips. I threw the apple at her. “Do you actually have to think about it?”

  Swiftly, she caught the piece of fruit and took a bite. “Maybe if you stopped throwing things at me, I wouldn’t have to think about it.”

  “I’m testing your reflexes.”

  “I’m about to test yours.” Munching on the apple, she read the Ripper’s invitation again. “Where is this place anyway? Miller’s Court?”

  “It doesn’t exist anymore,” I said. “Back in 1888, there used to be rooms for rent off Dorset Street. The Ripper killed and dismembered Mary Jane Kelly in one of those rooms.”

  “Wasn’t she the one who was cut open from head to toe?” Evelyn asked. “Barely recognizable becaus
e her face was all slashed?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Knowing what the Ripper did to her, you still want to go there?”

  “Like I said, Dorset Street is gone.” I pulled up a picture I’d taken on my phone to show her. “It was built over. White’s Row is as close as you can get. Don’t you remember from the Ripper tour?”

  “Mostly, I remember wanting to go home.”

  I plucked the letter from her and smoothed it out. The handwriting was the same as the previous letter I’d received, but it looked familiar for more reasons than one.

  “Do you think it’s someone we know?” I asked Evelyn. “The Ripper?”

  “Why would it be?”

  I traced the letters with the tip of my finger. “I feel like I’ve seen this writing before.”

  She glanced over my shoulder. “I think you’re desperate to see clues that aren’t really there. I don’t know anyone with handwriting like that.”

  “You were the one who encouraged me to investigate the Mouse Killer,” I reminded her. “You can’t suddenly change your mind and tell me I can’t go to Miller’s Court.”

  “You mean White’s Row?” she asked dryly.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  She flopped on the couch, apple in hand. “Neither am I. It’s different when the killer personally invites you to be his next victim. You’re not going.”

  “Are you going to stop me?”

  “If I have to.”

  I winked. “Challenge accepted.”

  As Evelyn turned away, I studied the handwriting once more. Suddenly, the memory of where I’d seen it before came back to me.

  “No,” I muttered. “It can’t be.”

  “Did you say something?” Evelyn called.