by Blair Howard
“Okay,” I said, jamming the car into gear and executing a wild U-turn. “I just downloaded the photos onto my computer. Now I need to get back to the house and go to work. Let’s see what Photoshop and I can do with them.”
Fifteen minutes later we were back in our room, the laptop up and running, and the Photoshop application onscreen.
“Here we go.” I said. The image I chose to work with was of the open back of the watch.
DPI went from 72 to 300, the smart sharpen filter percentage to 200, the radius to half a pixel, and noise reduction to 20 percent. Tim, my geek back at the office, could probably have done a better job of it, but without Internet service I had to go it alone.
“Now let’s see what we’ve got, if anything.”
I select the magnifier in the left column and clicked once, twice, three times, four—whoops, too much. It was still fuzzy even at three times magnification, but it was the best I could do, and certainly better than the original.
Amanda behind me, me intently aware of her breasts against my back, we stared at the enlarged section of the image. I was right: the swirls did look like scratches, but they weren’t. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make them look like scratches to disguise what they actually were: words etched into the metal. Even enlarged, they were tough to read:
A godly man the way would know
With fingers three the way to show
In sequence press, the key to free
And then one more and you will see
What secrets lie beneath the tree
“Damn,” I whispered. “What do you make of that?”
“It’s some sort of verse,” she said.
“Duh.”
Thud. She thumped my shoulder.
“Hey. That hurt. You’re gonna have to quit knocking me around. You don’t know your own strength.”
“You think? Boy, do you have a lot to learn.”
I wrote the verse down on a piece of paper, and we went and sat in the bay window to study it.
“Seriously, now. What do you make of it?” I asked as I handed her the paper.
I leaned back in my char and watched as she mouthed the words to herself, over and over. Finally she shrugged, shook her head, and handed it back to me.
“I have no earthly idea.” And, to be truthful, neither did I. I put the paper down on the table, sat back, folded my arms and stared at it, and let the words whirl around inside my head…. And then I got it. At least, I hoped I did.
“Let’s try to analyze what we have,” I said, quietly, but excited. “What we have is a painting. In the painting is a woman. Your great-great-grandmother. You have a watch and box. She has a box and a watch. You both have the same box and watch. Why would that be, do you think?”
She just sat there, her legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded in her lap, the light from the window shining through her hair….
Jeez, that’s enough, Harry; get on with it.
She shook her head.
“No comment? Okay then. She has her hand on the box and she’s showing us the watch and, in particular, the inside of its back, upon which is engraved this verse. Now do you have a comment?”
“Only that I must be dense, because if you see something and I don’t….”
“No, you’re not dense. But think about it. The box, the watch, the verse…. They have to be all tied together, which means…?”
“It means…. Damn it, Harry, I don’t know what….” And it was then the light came on, and I don’t mean those in the room. “Oh my God!”
“By God she’s got it. I think she’s got it.” I grinned at her. “Come on then. Give it to me.”
“It’s the key to opening the box.”
“You do got it. Excellent. All we need to know now is what the hell the verse means, and we’re home free.”
Her face dropped as she came back to earth with a bang. She reached for the paper and once more began mouthing the words. I smiled, sat back, and watched her. I was being mean, but hell, I was enjoying myself, watching her work. Yes, I had already figured it out—at least I thought I had. Now I wanted to see if she would get it. She didn’t, but I let her go on for several minutes more before I put her out of her misery.
“Come on. You’re not just a pretty face… a beautiful face. You can do it,” I said. “It’s easy.”
“Harry Starke.” She scowled at me. “If I thought for one minute that you were screwing with my head, I’d bitch slap you silly.”
“Yeah, I’m playing with you. But I mean it, too. It’s simple. The godly man and the three fingers are the giveaway: see?” I raised my right hand, extended the first two fingers and thumb together, and crossed myself in the manner of a Catholic priest: forehead, sternum, left shoulder, right shoulder. Her mouth dropped open as she watched.
“You ass,” she said. “You sat there and watched me struggle when you knew all the time.”
“Well, not all the time. It came to me when I was watching you mouth the words.”
“How do you know? You’re not Catholic.”
“No, but my stepmother is.”
“But what about the tree? What does the last line mean? There’s no tree.”
“I suspect that the word ‘tree’ is symbolic. It must mean the box. The box is made from wood: wood, tree, box. See?”
She stared at me, nodding slowly.
“Well? Are you going to go get it?” I asked. “Or are we going to sit here gabbing all day?”
“Get it? Get wha—oh, you mean the box.” She jumped up, fetched it from the bedside table drawer, and handed it to me.
“Okay. Here we go,” I said, “Top, bottom, left, right.” Nothing. “What the hell? It has to be.” I did it again, and then again. Nothing. I looked at Amanda, expecting her to be smiling that little sarcastic upward turn of the left side of her mouth, but she wasn’t. She looked… more concerned than anything else.
“Try it again.”
I did. Nothing. And then it hit me.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid! I have it the wrong way round. If we were watching a priest do it, his left would be my right. It’s right, left. Not left, right. So if I go top, bottom, right left, presto. I hope.”
“Okay, Harry. Try it.”
I took a deep breath.
“Okay,” I said, “Here we go. Top, bottom, right, left.” There was an almost inaudible click inside the box.
“Got it!” I grinned at her, took another deep breath, and gently pushed the center button. It moved. There was another click, this one slightly louder, and I felt the bottom of the box move. It had separated almost imperceptibly. I held it up so that I could see the underside. There was now a slight ridge all around the edge of the bottom of the box. It was just big enough for a fingernail, which I didn’t have. Well, I had them, but I kept them trimmed. I laid the box down on the table and looked at it. Gotcha!
“Amanda,” I said, without taking my eyes off it. “I need a nail file, please.”
She quickly rummaged around inside her clutch, found one, and then handed it to me.
I turned the box over onto its back and gently began to pry around the ridge. It was a tight fit, but with each gentle application of pressure it moved a little. After several minutes, the ridge had grown to a step of about a quarter inch, and then I knew what I had: a box within a box. The top and sides of the outer one fit tightly over the inner. It took another five minutes, maybe a little more, before I was able to part the two sections and we were looking at the empty outer shell and inner box.
The inner box itself was made of the same exotic wood as the outer, and it had a lid that wouldn’t open. I turned it around in my hands and spotted a small round hole in one of the sides, about a half inch from the top.
“Hah! The keys, Amanda, the keys,” I said, flapping my hand for them.
“What keys? What are you talking about?”
“The watch keys, damn it. Two of them fit it; the third key fits this box.”
“T
hey’re in the dresser drawer. I’ll get them.”
I collapsed against the chair’s backrest and waited. She was back in a second, and handed them to me.
I slid the tiny key into the hole and turned it to the right. Nothing. I turned it again, to the left. This time there was a click, and the lid opened slightly. I heaved a sigh of relief, leaned back in my chair, and pushed the box across the table to her.
“It’s your box, my love. You do it.”
She just looked at me, slowly shaking her head. I smiled.
She lifted the lid and looked inside. Then she began to remove what was inside. First was a plum-colored leather roll, like the kind of thing that might hold a small set of wrenches. She laid it one to side, unopened. Next, a small portrait of a man and a woman in a silver frame. I recognized the woman at once.
There were also two slim, leather-bound volumes, each about the size of a small paperback novel.
I picked up the portrait, turned it over, and looked at the words written on the back. Jonathan and Elizabeth—1890.
“She looks a little younger than she does in the portrait,” I said, and returned it to the table.
There were also eight or nine pieces of notepaper, each folded into small squares. They had gone almost brown with age.
“He must have been a doctor. Look.” Amanda had opened leather roll. Inside was what looked to me like a set of antique surgical instruments—there was even a small bone saw. Fascinating.
“The Journal of Jonathan Miles,” Amanda read aloud as she thumbed through the pages of one of the books. Then she stopped and looked up at me, her eyes wide, her face gone white.
“Oh my God!” She looked and sounded as if she’d been kicked in the stomach.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“You’re not going to believe this. I know who… no, I know what he was, and what he was hiding from.”
“Well? Go on then. Who was he?” I asked.
“Jack the Ripper.”
“Jesus, Amanda. That’s crazy.” I felt like I should laugh. “You’re off your rocker. How in God’s name did you come up with that?”
“I’m not off my rocker. Here.” She turned the book so that I could see it. “It’s all here in this journal. Look. Names, dates, everything. They’re all here: Mary Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddows, Mary Kelly, and three more I’ve never heard of. I’m telling you, Harry, he—my great-great-grandfather—was Jack the Ripper. It’s all in here. The police were on to him. He had to get out or get caught. The Ripper disappeared in 1888. Everybody knows that.”
“Yeah, but…. Oh come on. It’s crazy. What are the chances?”
“About the same as winning the lottery, I should image, but somebody always does win, don’t they? I guess I just won, too, and what a hell of a prize…. Oh Jesus, Harry. What am I going to do?”
I had no answer for her, but I sure as hell didn’t believe that she was related to the most notorious serial killer the world had ever known. The thing of it was, though, as I read through the two journals, I became more and more convinced that she was right. What finally clinched it for me were the contents of the folded sheets of paper. There were actually nine of them.
She watched as I picked one of them up. There was a name written on it in small, neat handwriting: Annie. I had a sick feeling I was not going to like what was inside. Be that as it may, I had no choice, so I opened it.
“What is it?” she asked, both hands on the table as she leaned over to get a better view.
“Hair,” I said. “A lock of hair, and some black powder that could be dried blood.” I placed the open piece of paper back on the table, its contents still inside, and opened another. This one had the name Catherine written on it. There was a lock of hair, but no powder. I refolded it and placed it back on the table. Then I leaned back in my chair, locked my fingers behind my neck, and stared up at the ceiling, unable to believe what was in front of me.
There really was no denying it. It was too coincidental not to be true, but it was all circumstantial. Hell, anyone could have owned the box. Miles could have picked the box up at some street market in London; Petticoat Lane, maybe. Come to that, even Elizabeth could have. I’d been there. You find all sorts of off-the-wall knickknacks “down the Lane.” I didn’t think there was enough to convict him even then, back in the day.
“What…” Amanda said hesitantly, “what are they? The hair, it belonged to… to them, didn’t it?”
I dropped my hands, leaned forward, and picked up one of the little silver boxes, opened it, and tipped a little round stone out into my hand. It was an opal. I put it back and snapped the box shut and replaced it. Yep, I was trying to buy myself some time, gather my thoughts.
“I’m afraid so. They’re souvenirs, I think. If they are, he was one sick son of a bitch. Not only did he take trophies,” I said, and picked up one of the journals and then threw it down again, “he kept records too. That’s a first for me.”
“Oh my God, Harry,” she said. “What am I… what are we going to do?”
I thought long and hard before I answered. “Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing? My ancestor was a serial killer, and you’re going to do nothing? This will ruin me, for God’s sake. There will be a media frenzy like never before. I’ll never be able to hold my head up again, and my job… oh my God, my job. I’ll have to quit.”
“Hey, hey. Slow down. Think about it for a moment. This doesn’t have to come out. Only you and I know about it, and I won’t tell. Will you?” Her shoulders slumped and she seemed to collapse backward into her chair.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Maybe that would work, but—”
“No buts. Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll put everything back in the box. Close it. Put it away and one day… well, we’ll hand it down to our kids. We’ll let them deal with it. They will be another generation farther on.”
“Our kids? I never said anything about us having kids. Hm. It does sound nice, though.”
She was quiet, thoughtful, as she slowly gathered everything together and put it back inside the box.
“Okay,” she said when she was finished. “Let’s do that. We have to. I couldn’t handle it, Harry. Not that. Just imagine. The press would go nuts. We’d have no life, not ever.”
I nodded. “It’s the right thing to do. Letting it out would achieve nothing, not for you, not your family, not for Elizabeth.”
“Jeez. I’d forgotten all about her. What do you suppose happened to her?” She picked up the small silver-framed photo and looked at it. “Do you think she might have somehow gotten hold of the journals? If she did, she would have found out about him. Maybe she did and he killed her, too.”
I reached across and took it from her. They were a nice-looking couple: she looked very much like her portrait in the sitting room, and he didn’t look at all like the dour-looking son of a bitch in the dining room. Oh, it was him all right, but this guy looked quite ordinary. But then, so had Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gazy…. Hmmm…. Gazy. The name started me thinking.
“Honey,” I said, thoughtfully. “Serial killers like to take souvenirs, to remind them of the highlights of their kills. Hair in folded papers, for instance. Some keep the bodies, like John Wayne Gazy, and a few more I can think of. Gazy buried his victims in the crawl space under the house. Maybe….”
“You’re saying that he buried her here, in this house? Oh my God. Please, no.”
“Amanda, let’s face it. If he did kill her, there are only two things he could have done with her. Either he threw her off the cliff, or she’s still in the house.”
She stared at me. “You think she’s still in the house.”
“That would be my guess. That’s what many of them do. Either to visit, like a souvenir, or to keep what they did a secret. Christ, Amanda. Think about it. What safer place to conceal a body than this pile of rocks? If he throws her off the cliff, she washes up somewhere along the beach and he has quest
ions to answer. But he buries her in the basement, and she’s gone, run away. He was a souvenir-taker; the hair proves that. And a whole body would be even better than this,” I said, reaching for the box and removing the folded papers. “And… you said three more, right? That you hadn’t heard of.”
She nodded.
“But,” I said, “there are nine of these.” I looked at each one in turn, until—“Yep, thought so. One says Lizzie and another Elizabeth. Lizzie would be the Stride woman, I guess, and Elizabeth….” I didn’t need to finish it; she knew.
“And where would a body be safer than someplace you could keep an eye it?” I asked. “No I don’t mean that literally,” I said in answer to the wide-eyed, quizzical expression on Amanda’s face. “What I mean is… well, somewhere safe, where no one is likely to find it, and that would be here, in this house.” I handed the folded papers back to her. She returned them to the box.
“Poor Elizabeth,” she said, staring into the box. “What an awful way to end up. I wonder what he did with her.”
“There’s only one way to find out. We’ve got to find her.”
“Oh yeah, right. And how do you propose we do that? Where would you even begin looking?”
“The most obvious place, of course.”
“The basement.” She said it at the same time I did. I nodded.
“Let’s go see Strong. Hey wait,” I said as she rose quickly to her feet. “Get rid of all this stuff, and not a word about it to anyone; not to August or anyone, and especially not Strong. Understand?”
She nodded, finished replacing the items in the box, put them in her suitcase, and locked it.
“Harry, I still can’t believe it. Jack the Ripper.” I knew exactly how she felt. I couldn’t believe it either, but the evidence, circumstantial or not, was overwhelming.
She used the bathroom, I took a turn when she’d finished, and then we headed downstairs. It was almost noon, but it seemed much later.
Chapter 15
“Good afternoon,” Strong said after we’d knocked on the open kitchen door. He was sitting at the table sipping on a cup of something hot and reading a newspaper. “Would you like some lunch? Mary’s gone to the village, but I’m quite handy with a knife and a loaf of bread.”