A Buried Past Read online

  “There’s eggs and bacon in the pan by the stove,” I muttered distractedly. The fresh breakfast was my attempt to convince Evelyn I hadn’t forgotten the real reason I’d come to London. Her health was my first priority. “I made muffins too. Help yourself.”

  She ambled sleepily to the kitchen. “I didn’t hear you come in last night. Did you sleep out here?”

  “I dozed on the couch for a few hours.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.” She busied herself with breakfast, clinking plates and utensils together. I heard her take a muffin from the pan and fiddle with the wrapper for several long minutes. She finally approached me. “Can you do this?”

  She’d gotten the wrapper halfway off. I finished the job for her and went back to scouring the Internet for the pin. Evelyn lingered in my peripheral vision.

  “Need something else?” I asked.

  “No, I—” She let out a deep breath through her nose. “Actually, I wanted to apologize. I know you. I shouldn’t have expected you to drop the Ripper case, and I shouldn’t have left you alone last night. I’m sorry.”

  The pain in her tone made me look up. “Is everything okay?”

  “I was up half the night, worried that you wouldn’t make it home,” she admitted. “It would have been my fault if the killer made you his next victim. I let my temper get the better of me, and you didn’t deserve that.”

  “I totally deserved it.” I set my laptop aside for the first time in hours to turn all my attention to Evelyn. “I’m sorry too. When I came here, I didn’t expect to get wrapped up in another murder investigation.”

  Evelyn smirked. “Couldn’t resist, eh?”

  I laughed weakly. “I can’t promise to give it up, especially now that there’s been another mysterious death. I don’t want to lie to you anymore or get your hopes up.”

  She blew out a sigh and plopped down on the couch next to me, where she started eating the muffin off a napkin on her chest. “I guess all I can do is make sure you don’t get into too much trouble.” She leaned forward and plucked the picture of Dudley off the coffee table. “What’s this?”

  “Another dead end,” I replied. “William had it in his pocket when he died. I thought the fingerprint on the back might belong to the killer, but it’s William’s.”

  “How did you figure that out?”

  “I asked the hospital for his records. With Mrs. Lewis’s permission,” I added, sensing Evelyn’s suspicion. “She told me to do whatever it takes.”

  “I can’t imagine you were with Mrs. Lewis all through the night,” Evelyn said. “Where’d you go after?”

  “You really want to know?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, but tell me anyway.”

  “I went to the second crime scene on Hanbury Street.”

  Her upper lip twitched like the lit fuse of a firework. I waited for the explosion, but she kept her word and didn’t blow up at me. “And what did you find there?” she asked with forced patience.

  I showed her the pin. “I have no idea where it’s from. Can’t find a damn thing online about a pin like that.”

  She took it between her index finger and thumb. “It’s a prefect pin.”

  “A what?”

  “A prefect pin,” she repeated, examining it from all sides. “Don’t you remember from school? The prefects wore badges to show off their status.”

  Delving into my memories of boarding school with Evelyn, I vaguely remembered that a few older students were elected as prefects. They were assigned to keep the other students in check, especially in the dormitories at night and in the corridors between classes.

  “I don’t remember any of them wearing badges,” I said.

  “Well, they did.” Evelyn held out the pin to show me the back. “See there? It’s an insignia. Match that to a school, and you’ll find out where your prefect is from.” She rolled off the couch, muffin in hand. “Good luck with that.”

  I examined the back of the pin. Sure enough, a tiny emblem was etched into the metal. If I squinted hard enough, I could make out a fleur-de-lis with a pattern of stars around it. I roughly sketched a larger version on a sheet of notebook paper and began my search.

  It turned out that an enormous amount of schools in the London area employed prefects. I compiled a list and started at the top, visiting each school’s website to see if their insignia matched the one on the back of the prefect pin. It was slow, boring work. Some of the schools had sub-colleges with different emblems, so I had to sift through those possibilities as well. Other schools had various insignias based on areas of study. Nearly seventy percent of every logo featured a fleur-de-lis. My pulse quickened each time I spotted a new one, but there was always something missing or different between the pin and the websites.

  Sometime later, Evelyn leaned over the back of the couch and glanced over my shoulder to see how I was getting on. She observed the map I’d pulled up of all the possible schools in the area. I’d ruled out almost all of them.

  “Far be it from me to accuse you of stupidity,” Evelyn began, munching on an apple right next to my ear, “but why are you looking at schools so far away from Whitechapel? Most kids in school don’t have cars. If one of them lost a pin on Hanbury Street, they likely walked or caught a ride from somewhere nearby. Like here—” She pointed to a school on the map that I hadn’t seen. “What’s this one in Lambeth? It’s right across the river.”

  I clicked on the school, and the map zoomed in. “Saint Francis Boarding School. How did I miss that?”

  Evelyn took a big crunch out of her apple. “What’s the insignia look like?”

  I navigated to Saint Francis’s website. As soon as the page loaded, a fleur-de-lis surrounded by stars popped up next to the school’s name. I double-checked the logo to make sure it matched the one on the back of the pin. “That’s it! Evelyn, you’re a genius.”

  I hugged her around the neck, and she almost spat bits of the apple into my lap. As I closed my laptop and fetched my shoes, she tossed the core into the bin.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To the school,” I said, slipping my shoes on. “I need to figure out which prefect lost their pin.”

  Evelyn crossed her arms. “How do you intend to do that?”

  “That depends. Do I have a partner in crime or not?”

  She let out a long, impressive swear.

  Saint Francis’s Boarding School for Boys and Girls was a short drive from our flat in Whitechapel. After some cajoling, I got Evelyn to come with me. We strolled across campus, arm in arm, as a part of our shtick. It was a beautiful school, smaller and more intimate than other institutions in the area. The grounds were massive, and Evelyn couldn’t stop talking about it.

  “The grass is still solid green,” she marveled. “Even with the weather getting colder at night. Did you see that cricket field? It was gorgeous! I hope they have a team for the girls as well—”

  “Evelyn?” I said. “We’re not actually sending our child to school here. It’s just a front so I can get access to the prefect files.”

  “I know,” she said. “But we have to get our stories straight.”

  “If you follow my lead, everything will be fine.”

  We located the main office, where a school official greeted us with a friendly smile from behind the front desk. “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said. “I’m Elsie. What can I help you with?”

  “We called earlier today hoping to speak with the headmaster.” I squeezed Evelyn more tightly to my side. “My wife and I are looking into schools for our daughter, and we want to make sure she has the best education possible.”

  “How progressive!” Elsie said, beaming as she handed over a stack of brochures. “Welcome to Saint Francis. As you can see, our campus is quite lovely, and we have some of the finest educators in the country. We can prepare your daughter for any university. Oxford and Cambridge, of course, or should she be interested in studying abroad, we can likely ensure her a posit
ion at Yale, Harvard, or another Ivy League if you prefer.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” I said.

  “What about sports?” Evelyn butted in. “Do you allow girls to play cricket here?”

  Elsie’s eyes widened at Evelyn’s brusque tone. “We don’t have a girls’ team for cricket, but your daughter can join field hockey if she likes.”

  Evelyn turned to me, looking serious. “That might be a deal breaker, honey. Bridget’s got her heart set on joining a cricket team.”

  It took me a moment to catch on. Apparently, I was following Evelyn’s lead instead of the other way around. “Oh, yes,” I said, letting my lower lip jut out in a pout. “I’m afraid our girl takes after my beautiful wife here.” I patted Evelyn’s good arm affectionately. “Bridget’s dying to play cricket. I’m not sure field hockey will do the trick.”

  “Perhaps I could convince her,” Evelyn said to me in a low voice as if trying to keep it between us. “If I could see the field, I might be able to swing the discussion in a positive light. Otherwise, we’ll have to enroll Bridget elsewhere.”

  “I could show you the hockey field!” Elsie offered at once. She popped up from her seat behind the desk. “It’s not that far of a walk. Would you care to see it?”

  “I would love to,” Evelyn replied. To me, she said, “How’s that blister of yours doing, my love?”

  “Uh—”

  “The one on your heel?” Evelyn raised an eyebrow, communicating telepathically with me. “You said it was painful to walk. Would you like to stay here?”

  “Ah, yes.” I faked a wince and rubbed the back of my ankle. “I’ll wait for you. Take pictures please.”

  Evelyn kissed my cheek. Then Elsie led her out of the office. I watched through the window as Evelyn chatted Elsie’s ear off. Once they were far enough away, I checked the room for cameras and dove behind Elsie’s desk.

  She’d left the computer unlocked in her haste to show the hockey field to Evelyn. I brought up a search menu and typed in “Prefects 2019.” Right away, a list popped up of the current students who held that position. One of them—Matthew Thompson—had been crossed off with a thick red line.

  I went back to the student directory and searched Matthew Thompson. He was a senior student with impeccable grades until he started tanking at the beginning of this semester. He had been in detention twice within the last week. According to his file, if he broke one more school rule, he would be expelled from Saint Francis. Something told me this kid might have lost his prefect pin on purpose.

  I checked Matthew Thompson’s schedule. If he bothered to attend class, he would be leaving the arts building, right across from the main office, in five minutes. I closed the open computer windows and headed outside to wait for him.

  When the bell rang, students poured from the arts building, eager to take a break before their evening activities. I craned my neck, looking through the crowd for a glimpse of Matthew. Minutes later, when most of the students had dissipated, I finally spotted him.

  He looked nothing like the picture on his student ID. For one, his hair was dyed purple, rather than its natural deep brown. He had lost a lot of weight, especially around his face, which made him look older than Bertha’s hairy friend Fred. His clothes hung loosely around his frame. He also was the only student who didn’t carry a backpack. As he passed me, I shot up from the bench I’d been waiting on.

  “Matthew!” I called.

  He turned to face me, shielding his light eyes from the slanting sun. “Do I know you?”

  Instead of answering, I held up the prefect pin. “Is this yours?”

  Matthew stared at it. “Where did you find that?”

  “29 Hanbury Street,” I said. “Where Rosie Brigham was murdered last night. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

  His gaunt face was almost unreadable. Almost. A subtle twitch—one people often performed to stop from crying—gave him away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He tried to walk around me, but I blocked his path. “Really? Because I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. Were you in Whitechapel the night of Rosie’s murder?”

  “Who are you?” he demanded hotly. “Because if you don’t have a police badge to show me, I’m not saying anything.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “That means nothing to me.” He walked around me again. “Leave me alone, freak.”

  I grabbed him by the arm and yanked. “Tell me what you were doing in Whitechapel.”

  “Get off me!” he yelped.

  Evelyn jumped in out of nowhere, using her broad body to separate me from the teenager. Once he was free, Matthew Thompson clumsily ran off. Evelyn blocked me from following him.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” she growled under her breath. “Accosting a kid like that?”

  “He’s hiding something,” I said. “He was there that night! I know it.”

  “He’s just a kid, Jack.” She pulled me toward the car park, away from Matthew Thompson. “You can’t do that to a kid. Let’s go.”

  10

  The hems of Mum’s trousers were soaked in mud, but she didn’t mind. She skipped along the riverbank, her laugh echoing across Windsor. A light drizzle fell from the sky, frizzing her hair. When she spun around in a light-footed pirouette, her rain jacket flew around her waist like a ballerina’s tutu. She lifted her face to the clouds and laughed again.

  “Come on, Jackie!” she cooed, beckoning me closer to the river’s edge. I looked into the water. It rushed by, faster than rapids. Was the level rising? “Follow me, Jackie!”

  The rain intensified, and Mum drew farther ahead, the distance between us growing larger. I tried to run faster, but the ground beneath my feet kept elongating. My legs ached as Mum wove in and out of the rain’s gray curtains.

  The river steadily filled, growing more turbulent by the second. White-capped waves washed around my feet, soaking my shoes and socks. The water was nearly the same height as the muddy path we walked along.

  “Keep up,” Mum called, her voice echoing from far away. She’d vanished somewhere ahead.

  “Mum?” I shouted, squinting through the rain for a glimpse. “Wait for me!”

  Her laugh, lighter than air, reverberated around me. Up ahead, I saw a figure appear. I rushed toward it, desperate to find Mum.

  There she was—beneath the gnarled tree with the twisted trunk. She caught sight of me and waved. “Hurry, Jackie! You’ll be too late.”

  A looming creature stepped out from behind the contorted trunk. With fingers too long for a man’s, the creature caught Mum by the neck. The laughter left her eyes, replaced with panic. The creature opened its mouth, baring teeth dripping with blood.

  “Jackie, don’t look,” Mum whispered.

  But I couldn’t turn my head away as the creature unhinged its jaw and sank its incisors into Mom’s neck and shoulder. She screamed, and the creature moaned in delight—

  “Let it go, Jack.”

  Evelyn reached over from her side of the bed and brushed my hand away from my laptop. I hadn’t known she was awake; the sun wasn’t up yet, and she was a usually late sleeper. Unable to find slumber—the nightmares kept coming back every time I closed my eyes—I’d been up half the night lightly stalking Matthew Thompson. Generally, it was easy to find records of a teenager’s life online. They posted everything to their favored social media sites, and while I’d located Matthew’s Instagram without much issue, it wasn’t doing me much good.

  Evelyn spotted how many tabs I had open, each one dedicated to a different online aspect of Matthew’s life. “This is probably illegal,” she muttered sleepily.

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “All his accounts are public. Anyone can look at these things.”

  “The question is should you?” Evelyn rolled out from under the covers and stretched her good arm. Tentatively, she tried to do the same with the other side and then grimaced. “Boy, I’m s
tiff today. Must have slept on the bad shoulder. Did you make breakfast?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be feeding me?”

  “During business hours,” I quipped. “After-hours care is an extra charge.”

  She thumped me with a pillow. When I didn’t defend myself, she regarded me with extra scrutiny. “What’s wrong? No more dirt on the kid?”

  I closed the laptop and rubbed my eyes. “Nothing. He hasn’t posted on his social media accounts in six months. I can’t find any reason why he would have been in Whitechapel that night.”

  “He probably snuck out and didn’t want to get in trouble,” Evelyn said. “Didn’t you say he was on academic probation?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there you go.” She made to roll out of bed but caught sight of me again. “Something else is bothering you. Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Not much,” I answered weakly.

  “Another nightmare?”

  The violent, rushing river washed through my head. “Don’t worry about me. It’s nothing.”

  Evelyn squeezed my shoulder. “We’re friends. It’s my job to worry about you. Was it about your mum again?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She lifted her hands in defeat. “Fair enough. You know what? I’m feeling particularly kind-hearted this morning. Why don’t I make you breakfast?”

  That got me out of bed. “No, thanks. I don’t find charred eggs and burnt toast as charming and delicious as you do.”

  As I got breakfast going, Evelyn did her best to help me. Mostly, all she could do was collect ingredients or hand me cooking utensils, but I appreciated the effort all the same. Once she was rendered useless in the kitchen, she turned on the TV and switched it to the news channel. She knew I’d want to see if the police had made any progress on the Ripper case. Sure enough, the bolded headline at the bottom of the screen announced: Oxford student arrested in conjunction with latest Whitechapel murder.