“What about your personal protection?” I asked. “I thought the Wagner Company was supplying you with guards.”
Mrs. Lewis sighed and rolled her eyes. “I told them to leave. They ruined my flower beds.”
“What can you tell me about William?” I asked, dawdling by the door. “I need to know anything and everything about the night he was attacked.”
“Come inside. Let me make you a cup of tea first.”
The house did not need any additional scents, but Mrs. Lewis brewed two mighty cups of Irish tea regardless. I held mine beneath my nose and prayed the curry smell belonged to actual food and not Mrs. Lewis. I’d met my fair share of mourning mothers who had no strength left to take care of themselves, which was one of the reasons I was so passionate about my work. I knew what it was like to hit rock bottom because someone had been taken away from you. No one should have to feel like that.
We settled in the sitting room. The mantel was decorated with several framed pictures. Many of them featured a round-faced boy with pink cheeks. He seemed to favor wacky sweaters woven from mismatched yarn, and he never missed a chance to display his signature mischievous grin.
“That’s my boy,” Mrs. Lewis said, noticing my gaze. She drew a box of tissues toward her to have them at the ready. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” The pictures didn’t include many other people. Specifically, I didn’t see a father figure. “Was it just you and William?”
“Yes, his father left us when he was a wee lad,” she replied.
“Did William have any contact with him?”
“Once, when Willy was fifteen,” she said. “They met for lunch. My ex-husband promised he’d see Willy more often. Then he vanished again. Willy was heartbroken.”
I set my tea on the side table and leaned forward to focus on Mrs. Lewis. “Do you know where your ex-husband is now? Would he have any reason to hurt William?”
“It wasn’t him,” she said shortly. “He’s dead. I got official word of it two years ago.”
I mentally crossed William’s father off my list of suspects. “Tell me about William. Did he always want to go to med school?”
Mrs. Lewis laughed. “Heavens, no. I thought he’d be one of those lads stomping around London and causing trouble. After that meeting with his father, he straightened out his act and started focusing on his studies.”
“What about his schedule?” I inquired. “Did he always walk to the hospital so early in the morning?”
“Yes, it was required of him to get there near dawn.” Her eyes shone with brimming tears. “I shouldn’t have let him walk. If I’d driven him—”
“Mrs. Lewis, the hospital is mere blocks away,” I reminded her gently. “It made sense for William to walk. Don’t blame yourself for this.” As she pulled the first tissue from the box and dabbed her cheeks, I took out a small notepad and pen. “Did you notice anything odd about William before he left the house that morning or perhaps the night before? Did he seem agitated or scared at all?”
“Not a bit,” she answered, her voice thick. “He was excited for the day. They were learning something new, but God help me, I can’t remember these medical terms. He was late leaving the house—”
“How late?”
“Twenty minutes or so.” Mrs. Lewis watched as I scribbled the details in my notepad. “Does that matter in your investigation?”
“It’s good to note deviations in a victim’s schedule,” I explained. “Sometimes, it can bring to light something unknown about a case.”
She chuckled lightly. “I’m afraid it was no deviation. William was almost always late. If he showed up on time, I would drop dead.” Her lip wobbled as she realized what she had said.
“Were you given his things?” I said quickly to head off her next wave of emotion. “After he was found?”
“They kept everything for evidence. Except this.” She reached into the drawer of a side table and took out a small faded picture of a wizened bulldog. “Dudley was William’s best friend. They grew up together. He died right before William got into med school. Willy was devastated. He kept that picture in his breast pocket every day.”
I examined the photo. Dudley was a handsome boy, but he wasn’t much of a clue about who might have struck William down that night. That was probably why the police had released the photo to Mrs. Lewis. I flipped the picture over. On the back was a smear of dirt with the hint of a fingerprint etched into it.
“Can I keep this?” I asked Mrs. Lewis.
Her lip quivered again. “As long as I can have it back when you’re done with it.”
“Absolutely.” I pocketed the photo. “Let’s move on.”
After I spent a solid three hours with Mrs. Lewis, the sky began to darken. Purple clouds cast a lilac-gray shadow across Whitechapel, threatening to burst at any moment. All alone, I tugged my coat tighter around my body and hurried through the streets. Fear crept beneath my skin and laid eggs there. It was the first time I’d walked through Whitechapel without Evelyn’s hulking form beside me. I hadn’t realized how much I relied on her for the comfort of safety.
The police were on every corner, watching for signs of the Ripper, but they were scared too. They shuffled their feet and swung their batons. There were no squared shoulders, strong jaws, or reassuring voices. Like everyone else, they wanted to go home to the safety of locked doors.
The walk back to Evelyn’s flat felt longer than normal, especially with rain and fright dropping cold reminders on the back of my neck. As I crossed a street, a shadow
