“Carl Feigenbaum,” I corrected without enthusiasm.
“Yeah, him,” Evelyn went on. “He was a merchant sailor, right? That’s why he could have gotten away with the crimes. He went back to his ship, and the police didn’t bother to search the docks for him. What if your Ripper lives on a boat too? It’s a lot easier to disappear when your home base floats, right?”
A quick Internet search provided some much-needed information. In London, a houseboat license required owners to move from one mooring to the next every two weeks. Few people remained at one mooring for much longer, as the fees to do so were too expensive. Three moorings were close enough to Whitechapel to warrant an investigation: one near the Tower Bridge, one in Limehouse, and one on Regent’s Canal to the north. I called all three, asking a few select questions.
After my third call, Evelyn tapped the fingers of her good hand against the countertop with poorly disguised impatience. “Well?” she asked. “What did you find out?”
“Two boats have been moored at those locations between August 31st—the date of the first murder—and now,” I reported, showing Evelyn the notes I’d taken. “The Dark Dawn and the Mouse Killer.”
Evelyn wrinkled her nose. “Whatever happened to classy boat names?”
“Got me,” I said. “Both boats are still located at Talavera Moorings on the canal.”
“Are you going to go there and check it out?”
I tossed my notes aside. “I’m not sure. I’ve gotten myself into plenty of trouble with this already.”
Evelyn’s face fell. “I thought you’d be more excited about another lead.”
“It’s probably a dead end,” I said. “I don’t see the point of following up with it.”
“But the autumn of terror isn’t over yet.”
I shot her a questioning look.
She opened her laptop and turned it around for me to see. The Wikipedia page for Jack the Ripper was on the screen. “I looked up the dates of the canonical five. The fifth victim was found on November ninth. That’s two weeks away. What if you don’t check out these houseboats and someone else gets killed?”
“It’s not my fault the police can’t do their jobs,” I said glumly. “Don’t blame me for some hypothetical murder that hasn’t happened yet. I’m going for a shower.”
“Hold on right there.” She yanked me onto the sofa and held me captive. I struggled to free myself, but Evelyn was stronger than me regardless of how many arms she had at her disposal. “You gotta snap out of it, Jack. I know I was hard on you before, but that’s because I was worried you would get hurt. Now, I think you’re the only person who’s smart enough to catch this arsehole.”
“It’s not my place,” I replied. “I’m not a real investigator.”
“But you have made real strides in this case,” she reminded me, loosening her grip around my neck. “Maybe you should be a P.I. You’ve got the stones for it.”
I tried again to pull away. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She clasped me around the waist to keep me in place. “I’m not being ridiculous. I’m serious. Go investigate the houseboats, Jack. If it turns out to be another dead end, I’ll forget you had anything to do with the Ripper in the first place.”
I grumbled under my breath. It was raining again. The last thing I wanted to do was traipse out into the damp afternoon to ask about a damned boat.
“Don’t do it for yourself,” Evelyn advised. “Do it for the Ripper’s next victim.”
The Dark Dawn was a long, low houseboat painted the same dark color—somewhere between gray and navy—as the canal water. A crisp breeze whipped cold mist across my cheeks. I balanced on the docks and leaned over to knock on the houseboat’s door. After a moment, it slid open.
An elderly woman with short white hair, fluffy slippers, and enormous glasses peered up at me. “Has it been two weeks already? I could have sworn we just moved.”
“I’m not from the mooring, ma’am,” I said.
She warily narrowed the opening to her floating home. “What do you want with us, then? We don’t rent our boat to tourists. You people need to stop asking.”
“I’m not a tourist either,” I replied. “Well, I suppose I sort of am, but that’s not the point.”
Once more, I introduced myself as a private investigator. This time, I handed the older woman a business card that Evelyn had easily designed in a handy graphics program and printed on a spare bit of card stock. Though the card wasn’t equivalent to a P.I. license, it made me seem more legitimate to the people I questioned.
“I called the mooring companies, and I realized your boat has been docked around Whitechapel since August 31,” I said.
“So?”
“A man was murdered on August 31, not far from here,” I told her. “I have reason to believe the person responsible for the murder lives on a houseboat.”
The little old lady let out an incredulous, “Ha!” Then she said, “Certainly not on ours! Why don’t you come in? I’ll prove it to you.”
I ducked my head and stepped cautiously across the small gap between the dock and the boat. Like the outside, the inside of the houseboat was long and low. Fortunately, I was short enough not to bump my head on the ceiling, but Evelyn wouldn’t have been so lucky.
“I’m Harriet,” the woman finally disclosed. “This is my husband, Harry.”
Harry sat so quietly in the far corner of the room that I didn’t notice him until she pointed him out. He raised a hand in greeting but didn’t bother to get up.
“Harry and Harriet,” I said. “That’s cute.”
“Why?” Harriet asked.
“Because you sort of have the same name.”
Her nose crinkled. “No, we don’t.”
“Never mind.”
Harriet filled an electric kettle and switched it on. “Anyway, this is our home. Those are our papers.” She pointed to a small desk piled high with paperwork. “Anything you want to know about us is right over there. Have a
