I shuffled through the stacks of records and files. Harriet and her husband did not possess the organizational skills necessary to live in such a small, cramped space. Every bill, letter, and form they’d ever received had been dumped on top of the desk. I pulled one from the bottom of the stack dated 1978. Their whole life, at least from the time they were married, was on that desk. Photos of their boat through the years hung on the walls. I noticed a hospital bill for Harry and picked it up to examine it.
“He’s paralyzed from the waist down,” Harriet said over my shoulder, making me jump. I hadn’t realized she was behind me. “It happened a few years ago. He was trying to make repairs to the boat and fell off. We thought he might not make it.” She spoke loudly, as if her husband wasn’t right here, listening to her talk about him. She lifted her own hand, displaying a tremble. “And I’ve got the shakes. Neither one of us is much up to killing anyone these days.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Would you like some tea?”
As I accepted a warm mug from her, I asked, “You were moored near Tower Bridge on August 31st, right?”
“I believe so,” Harriet replied, lowering herself into a chair next to her husband. “We move quite a bit. It’s cheaper that way, and I’m afraid cheap is the only thing we can afford now.”
“Are you familiar with any other people who live along the Thames or this canal?” I asked. “Any neighbors that do the same thing you do?”
“Sure, plenty of people,” Harriet said. “But we don’t all keep to the same schedule. Sam and Elton are up the river a bit. Eli and Sherry just left here. Nancy—”
“I don’t need all their names,” I cut in, suddenly wondering what purgatory was like. “But if you noticed a specific boat near yours, I’d like to know. Maybe with a single person living there?”
Harriet stared blankly at me.
“What about the Mouse Killer?”
“The what?”
“The boat moored across the way,” I said. “It was also docked at the same moorings that you and your husband have been at for the last several weeks.”
Harriet sipped her tea. “Oh, that old thing. Sorry, my eyesight is too terrible to read boat names anymore.”
“Do you know who owns it?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“I’m pulling teeth here, Harriet.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry?”
I took a deep breath to steady my patience. “You must have seen someone around the Mouse Killer.”
“Sure, a towering tow-headed lad.”
My pulse pounded. “A tall blonde man?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Thanks, Harriet!”
I set my untouched tea on the nearest counter and let myself off the Dark Dawn. In my haste, I almost slipped off the dock and into the canal. My shoe got caught between the dock and the boat. As I wrenched my shoe free, a boat engine started nearby. I sprinted up the dock as a houseboat chugged steadily away from the shore. I didn’t need to see the name printed on the stern to know which one it was.
By the time I arrived home, it was dark, and I was tired, but the evening’s surprises weren’t over yet. Evelyn waited up for me, and as soon as I saw the look on her face, I knew something was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked wearily. I kicked my boots off, too exhausted to bend down to take them off the right way. “What now?”
“A package came for you.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“No, I didn’t think so.”
I lifted an eyebrow at her odd, stiff manner. “Evelyn, what’s going on? Did you open the package?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so? Were you worried I’d be mad?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s—hard to explain.”
I spotted the box in question on the counter and went over to it. “Fine, I’ll look myself.”
“No, Jack. It’s gross—”
I popped open the cardboard and immediately dropped the package when I saw what was inside. The box hit the floor and fell on its side. Out rolled half of a human kidney.
19
I quickstepped away from the organ, dancing on my toes to escape its wayward route. When it came to a stop, I leaned over and examined it. Evelyn joined me.
“Is it real?” Evelyn asked, holding her breath.
“I think so.”
“Is it… human?”
“Definitely.”
Evelyn made a short gagging noise. I reached to pick up the kidney, but she swatted my hand away. “What are you doing?”
“It’s preserved.” I dodged around her and collected the kidney from the floor. “Dried out. See?”
I tossed it to her. She yelped, hot-potatoed it in her good hand, and threw it onto the kitchen counter. The kidney rolled to a stop against a container of utensils.
“Great, we’ll have to sanitize everything,” Evelyn grumbled. “Who would send you a kidney?”
“The killer,” I answered easily. “There should be a letter too.” I rummaged in the box and located an old-school envelope sealed with red wax. Breaking the wax, I pulled the letter out, unfolded it, and read it aloud. “From Hell. Miss Frye, ma’am. I send you half the kidney I took from one woman and preserved it for you. The other piece, I fried and ate. It was very nice. I may send you the bloody knife that took it out if you only wait a while longer. Signed, Catch me when you can, Miss Frye.”
Evelyn daintily took the letter between her thumb and forefinger to read it for herself. “This is mad. Why would they do this?”
“Because it’s what the original Ripper did. Supposedly,” I added. “The police got a ton of letters from ‘the killer.’ It’s one of the reasons the Ripper became such a legend in the first place. The From Hell letter is one of the few that might have been genuine. It wasn’t signed with the pseudonym, nor was it addressed to the police.”
“Then who was it addressed to?”
“George Lusk,” I replied. “The chairman of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee. In 1888, the committee posted around Whitechapel, using
