Page 21 of Secrets in the Dark
“Wait,” Della said suddenly.
They all paused to look at her.
“I’d like to walk around for a minute. Get a feel for these streets again. If you want to go back, I can grab a ride—”
“Might not hurt the visiting Americans to take a walk,” Mason said.
“I’ll walk with you,” Edmund said.
“Not a bad idea, if you don’t mind,” Mason said.
“This murder wasnearthe place where the canonical first victim was found—I’d like to walk to and around the area where the second victim was found,” Della said. “Because, if our friend goes by what appears to be his agenda, that’s where he will strike next.”
“Hanbury Street, Spitalfields, now a trendy section of East London,” Sean Johnstone provided.
“Near the Ten Bells Pub, where the next victim, Annie Chapmanmighthave had her last drink,” Edmund added. “Very trendy now as well—until someone starts killing again, the ghosts of crimes long past can be big business. Trust me, ghost hunters clog these streets as well. I think every paranormal show known to man has done an episode in thesehaunts.”
“Ten Bells, hmm?” Mason said. “Maybe not a bad place for us tohauntourselves tonight.”
“Thinking the same. Except, not so much together. If Jesse Miller is our killer, he already knows the three of us. Then again, we could take a page from his playbook.”
“And that is?” Sean asked her.
“We can turn into chameleons—change up our look. I’m not suggesting prosthetics or getting ridiculously costumed—”
“I’m all into costumes, no problem!” Sean said.
“Well, all right then. We’ll look at the now-trendy area, and come back to find a few spirits tonight,” Edmund said.
“It’s a plan,” Della assured them. As they started for the car, Mason happened to look back down the alley.
He paused, frowning.
A woman was standing there, watching them from a distance. Not that he knew his fashion that well, but she appeared to be dressed as a nineteenth-century schoolteacher.
Were people sick enough to be dressing up in period wear for the new Ripper?
Or, he realized, smiling, was she a remnant of that long-ago day when a maniacal killer had first roamed the streets to bring the area to infamy.
She stared back at him strangely, frowning as well, then appearing surprised. She lifted a hand to him, frowning still.
He lifted a hand in return.
Everyone was heading to Edmund’s car, other than Sean Johnstone who was walking to his own.
“Um, hey, I need just one more minute here,” Mason said, “going to check that side of the alley one more time.” He shrugged. “I think that there’s a method to my madness—never really sure.”
He glanced at Della. She knew what he was doing.
He hurried on down the length of the alley, one of the few remaining winding back streets in an area that had come of age after the Jack the Ripper slayings.
At the end of the alley, he saw that his Victorian-age ghost had turned around the side of the corner building, as if she recognized that it would be awkward to appear to be talking to the air. He was afraid for a brief moment that she had gone. Some spirits remained—but feared the living, just as the living might fear ghosts.
But she was waiting for him. She was a small woman, perhaps in her early thirties when she had passed from mortal life. Her hair was neatly smoothed back into a bun and her blouse, buttoned high to her throat, was covered by a small blue vest that matched her long blue skirt.
She hadn’t been a victim, he was certain. Not of the man history had come to know as Jack the Ripper. She was too well dressed and coiffed to have ever “plied the trade” in Whitechapel.
“Hello,” Mason said, “I’m Mason Carter, with a special task force.”
