A homeless woman appeared from the alleyway, pushing a buggy full of old blankets and random bits and bobs she’d picked up in her travels. A shabby gray cat perched on the handles as the woman lurched toward me.
“Spare a few quid, darling?” she asked hoarsely. She had lost several teeth, and her gray hair was matted to her scalp. “I need to eat.”
The cat hopped off the buggy and wound around my ankles. Evelyn had warned me of scammers in the city that asked for a few coins and ended up nicking your entire wallet while you were distracted. I clasped my hand to my back pocket, where my phone and wallet resided, and handed over the change I had from lunch.
The woman gave me a gummy smile. “Cheers, lass. Watch your step, eh? Never know what could be lurking in the streets o’ Whitechapel.”
As if I needed the reminder. I watched until the woman finished crossed the street. Her cat sat at my feet and peered up at me with inquisitive green eyes.
“She’s leaving without you,” I said to it. “Better get going.”
It remained where it was, studying me.
“Shoo!”
No dice. I turned from the cat. As soon as I stepped away, it darted across the street to follow the woman, narrowly avoiding the wheels of a passing car. Thoroughly creeped out, I quickened my pace.
The streetlights popped on, illuminating small circles of the road. I ran from one bright patch to the next, as if the darkness sapped my strength and my body fed on artificial light. At my rapid pace, I didn’t notice a sign on the sidewalk until my toe caught the edge of it. I stumbled, and the sign went flying, landing flat with a loud bang.
“Oi!” roared someone from inside the adjacent building. “If I catch you little shits trying to steal my sign again—!”
Bertha, the guide from our Ripper walking tour, burst into the street. She glared around, looking for the potential vandals. When she saw me grasping my injured toe, her expression relaxed.
“I remember you,” she said. “Jack, was it?”
“That’s me.” I accepted her hand to help me up, and she launched me to my feet. I helped her pick up the sign. “Sorry about your sign,” I said. “I was walking too quickly, and it’s so dark out here that I didn’t see it.”
“As long as you don’t run off with it, I won’t blame you,” said Bertha. She looked me over from head to toe. “Everything all right? You seem a bit out of sorts.”
“It’s all this Ripper stuff,” I admitted. “I’m not usually afraid to walk by myself, but it’s different with a killer on the loose. I’m small. Easy target, you know?”
“You’re not the only one,” Bertha said. “The whole city is terrified. Would you like to come in for a minute? Shake off the nerves?”
Gratefully, I went inside with her. The Ripper Tour gift shop was bereft of tourists and shoppers. “Are you closed for the night?” I asked Bertha.
“Nope,” she replied, sitting on a high stool behind the counter. “Everyone’s too scared to be out tonight, and they certainly don’t want to take a Ripper tour. Don’t worry. Business will pick up as the fear wears off and the adrenaline kicks in.”
I leaned against one of the display tables. “You know more about the Ripper than anyone else, right?”
Bertha shrugged. “I suppose I have to. I’ve been doing these tours for ten years. People ask a lot of questions. If you can’t answer them, they go on the website and leave bad reviews. Why do you ask? I thought you were a bit of a Ripper expert yourself.”
“I know everything about the murders in 1888,” I said, “but I haven’t lived in present-day Whitechapel as long as you have. You know this neighborhood and its goings-on better than I do.”
“That’s true. What are you getting at?”
I hesitated, unsure of whether Bertha would approve of my snooping. “I’ve been investigating the murders myself. I know that sounds crazy,” I added, seeing one of Bertha’s eyebrows rise. “But I wanted to take a crack at it.”
Bertha interlaced her fingers and stretched her arms over her head. Several loud pops permeated the air as her spine realigned itself. “It doesn’t sound crazy. I’m sure you’re not the only one trying to figure out what’s happening. We don’t have a choice, considering the police are bumbling around like idiots.”
I hadn’t seen the news since that morning. “No new leads?”
“Not a one,” Bertha answered. “They keep saying shite to make us think they know what they’re doing, but how are we supposed to trust them when they lost the CCTV footage again?”
My mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? No footage?”
“They’re lying about something,” she insisted. “I’ve walked these streets hundreds of times. I’ve seen the cameras around both murder locations. It’d be damn near impossible not to catch the killer on tape twice.”
“The cameras were pointing right at the spot where William died,” I told her. “I checked them myself.”
Bertha pushed herself off her stool. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the cameras on Hanbury Street myself. You up for it?”
“Up for what?”
“Let’s take a peek at the new crime scene.”
9
Bertha exuded a similar energy to Evelyn’s. They were both larger women with attitudes to match, and though I didn’t know Bertha half as well, I felt safe with her in the streets. This was her domain, and she made sure everyone knew it. Her hands swung confidently at her sides, and if anyone—a shady grifter or a group of rowdy lads on their way to a pub—glanced at her for a moment too long, she lifted her lip and bared her teeth like an overprotective Doberman. However, she was friendly toward people she knew, which turned out to be a large percentage of
