When I had nothing to do for myself and nothing to help Evelyn with, I often caught myself staring at the mysterious phone number scribbled on Nadine’s paper napkin. Every time I went to dial it, my fingers trembled. I never completed the call. Finally, I shoved the napkin into a drawer, where I wouldn’t have to look at it every day.
The days passed without any updates on the Ripper. The reporters had all but forgotten about the Whitechapel murders, content to cover robberies, car accidents, and drug incidents instead. London, too, had calmed, as it had in the lull between Rosie Brigham’s murder and the Double Event. November ninth, the date of the last canonical murder, rapidly approached, and no one seemed in the least prepared for it.
I did not hear from Chief Inspector Baker, so it was a mystery whether or not he had investigated the Mouse Killer houseboat as I had advised. Considering his reaction at the station, I suspected he had not. Word of the kidney and the accompanying letter also went by the wayside. If the police bothered to identify whom the kidney belonged to, they did not release the information to the public. I half-wished I’d done as Baker said and kept the kidney and letter for myself. At least I would have tried to make something of the macabre hint.
One weekend, Evelyn and I decided to take a break from work and have a play date in London. We had brunch then went on a touristy boat ride along the Thames. While foreigners took pictures of Westminster Abbey and Big Ben, Evelyn and I sat back to enjoy the weather. The sun was out for once, shining as if the city of London hadn’t been haunted by mysterious homicides for the last two months.
As we passed by Tower Bridge, I spotted several houseboats docked along the riverside. A rusted sign advertised an open spot for Riverside Moorings. The name jogged my memory. This was where the Mouse Killer was docked on August 31st, right around the corner from the first murder site.
“Stop!” I shot to my feet, waving to get the attention of the tour guide and accidentally knocking Evelyn’s drink out of her hands. “I need to get off.”
The tour guide, an older woman wearing a whaling jacket and a bucket hat like we were about to sail into Niagara Falls, halted her speech about the bridge. “We’re in the middle of a tour. You can’t get off until we get back to the dock.”
“I’m gonna puke,” I announced.
“Pull over!” the tour guide shouted.
The boat veered to the right, and the crowd parted to avoid my imaginary plague as Evelyn and I made our way to the shore. Evelyn easily hopped across to solid ground and pulled me on land. The boat went on its way, its passengers relieved I hadn’t blown chunks during the tour.
“What the hell was that about?” Evelyn asked.
“Follow me.” I picked my way through the tall, wet grass along the riverside. Mud clung to my shoes with long, crooked fingers and climbed up to the legs of my pants. I kept walking until I reached a small office with a smaller window.
I tapped the glass to wake the attendant—a pimply teenaged boy—inside. His cheek dropped off his hand, and he snorted as he jerked awake. He slid the window aside.
“Welcome to Riverside Moorings,” he said robotically. “Looking for a spot to rent? We’re the cheapest location in the heart of London with the best view of Tower Bridge. My name’s Trevor, and I’m happy to help you—”
“I’m not here to rent,” I said. “I’m looking for someone. What can you tell me about a boat called the Mouse Killer? It was moored at your location at the end of August.”
Trevor wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not supposed to give out people’s personal information.”
I fished several colorful bills from my pocket and slid them through the window. “What about for fifty pounds?”
The money vanished, and the teenager beamed. “I’m happy to help.” He pulled a record book from beneath his desk and flipped it open to the month of August. “Let’s see here. The Mouse Killer was docked here between August 18th and the 31st.”
“Who filled out the paperwork for it?” I asked.
His index finger scanned the page. “My mum’s made a note here that the owner registered for the spot online. That’s a different set of records.”
“Do you have access to them?”
He shook his head. “No, Mum keeps them on her computer at home.”
I gritted my teeth. “Do you remember where the boat was docked?”
“The Mouse Killer?” Trevor poked his tongue into his cheek, thinking about the question. He squinted down the river. “Big ugly one, was it? I think it was parked at the end of the mooring, right on the edge.”
“Did you ever see anyone come or go from it?”
“Not during the day,” he said. “But when my mom made me take night shifts, I saw the owner plenty of times. I figured he worked nights or something.”
“What did he look like?”
Trevor shrugged. “No idea. It was always dark when I saw him. He was a tall fellow. I remember that.”
I turned to Evelyn. “It had to have been the Ripper, right?”
“I do think it’s odd no one’s ever seen the Mouse Killer’s owner in plain sight,” Evelyn agreed. “Do you think the other moorings have better records?”
“Let’s find out.”
We thanked Trevor and found a picnic table under a tree to make a few calls. This time around, I knew which boat to ask about.
“Hello, Nancy,” I said to the woman who picked up the phone for the first mooring company. “I’m looking for information on someone who docked their boat at your location. What can you tell me about the Mouse Killer?”
As with Trevor, it took some convincing before Nancy agreed to check her records. When she did, it was another disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Miss
