Outside the therapy clinic, Evelyn practically skipped down the street, unable to contain her joy. Alba had fitted her with a sling to keep her arm close to her body, but the development was a victory for Evelyn nonetheless. She swung the clunky brace around in her good hand. I half expected her to chuck it into the sewer so she’d never have to wear it again.
“Nandos?” she proposed cheerfully. “To celebrate?”
“You know I can’t resist peri-peri chicken.”
As we walked to the restaurant, I noticed something about the other people in the London streets: they were scared. Eyes darted this way and that. Everyone walked a little quicker than usual, especially those who were alone. Mothers and fathers pulled their children closer to their sides. The extra police wandering around didn’t help to dissolve the tension. Rather, they acted as a constant reminder that not all was well. A killer was on the loose, and no one knew when he would strike next.
“September 30th,” I told Evelyn as we shared garlic bread, coleslaw, fries, and a platter of spicy wings at Nandos. “That’s the next time the Ripper will strike. Twice. It’s the night of the Double Event. People should expect two people to die, unless the modern-day Ripper thinks the third murder wasn’t canonical—”
“I’m eating,” Evelyn announced through a mouthful of chicken. “Please contain your talk of murder.”
I chewed quietly and thoughtfully, watching through the window as folks hurried through the streets. Any one of them could be next. Inspector Baker’s morning speech may have been inspiring, but he didn’t outright say the police had any new leads.
“I wonder if they have CCTV footage of the new murder,” I mused. “They must, right?”
“You’re doing it again,” Evelyn warned. “You promised me you’d stay out of it, remember?”
My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but since it wasn’t labeled as spam, I wiped peri-peri sauce off my hands and answered it. “Hello?”
“Hello,” replied someone in a trembling voice. “I’m calling for Miss Jacqueline Frye?”
“Who is it?” Evelyn hissed. I held up a finger to hush her.
“This is she,” I answered into the phone. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Linda Lewis,” the woman replied. “We met a few days ago in the lobby of the Wagner building?”
“Ah, yes! How are you, Mrs. Lewis?”
Across the table, Evelyn threw a fry in the air out of frustration. She knew exactly who Mrs. Lewis was, and she definitely didn’t want me talking to her.
“Not well, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Lewis said. “Have you seen the news?”
“Yes, I’m so sorry. This must be a hard time for you.”
Mrs. Lewis took a deep breath. “The police are running me ragged. They keep dodging my questions, and they won’t tell me anything about my dear William’s death.”
“That’s terrible,” I said, gritting my teeth to control my tone as Evelyn kicked my shins beneath the table. I threw a chunk of garlic bread at her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s why I’m calling,” said Mrs. Lewis. “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. If the police won’t do their jobs, I have to take things into my own hands. I want you to look into my son’s death. I’ll pay whatever you want.”
“Let’s focus on William,” I told her. “We can discuss fees later. The important thing is finding out what happened to your son.” Evelyn pointed at me then drew a line across her throat with her index finger. I turned my chair away from her. “Would you be able to meet me today to talk? I’ll need to know everything you can tell me about your son.”
“Yes, would you like to come ’round my house this afternoon for tea?”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Excellent. I’ll send you the address and a time.”
When I hung up, Evelyn’s glare was so sharp that she could have sliced me in half with it. “That’s it, then?” she asked. “You’re completely disregarding our conversation from last night? I thought you were going to focus on your mother.”
“I can do both,” I insisted. Her glare deepened. “Mrs. Lewis is desperate. The police aren’t helping her. She wants someone else to look into it. What harm could it do?”
“Did you tell her you’re not actually a private investigator?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re not licensed!” she answered. “What you’re doing is illegal.”
A group of lads at the next table over glanced our way at the sound of Evelyn’s rising voice. I leaned over the table and muttered in a low tone, “I get that you’re worried about me, but this is bigger than my own safety. Mrs. Lewis needs help, and she asked me to give it to her. I couldn’t say no.”
“You could have,” Evelyn insisted. “The fact that you didn’t says all I need to know about how much you value my opinion on these matters.” She pushed her plate around and got to her feet. “I’m going home. Enjoy your afternoon tea.”
Though I grew weary of my hot and cold friendship with Evelyn, I went to Mrs. Lewis’s house anyway. She lived in Whitechapel, a few miles from the hospital where her son worked. The dwelling looked shabby from the outside. The peach door clashed with the tan bricks of the exterior, and the mail slot was so stuffed with letters and other junk that everything spilled out onto the concrete below. I tried to lift the knocker, but it was rusted in place. I rapped my knuckles against the door instead.
A half second later, Mrs. Lewis opened the door just wide enough to poke her nose out. She glanced left and right up the street before yanking me inside by the wrist. Potpourri and the thick smell of curry hit me like a truck as I stepped into the foyer.
“Afternoon,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t notice my eyes watering. I rubbed my wrist. For a small lady, she had enough strength to stretch it out of the socket.
She locked the door and peered through
