Chapter 10
The creature shambled across the piles of papers to the plate and proceeded to make the scone crumbs vanish, all the while keeping a weather eye on her—actually, weather eyes. Next was the cup of tea. It dipped a foot in the liquid and did a taste test.
Apparently the tea met the arachnid’s approval, for it hefted the cup and drank. Cynda watched in fascination as the numerous legs positioned the cup just right. Setting it down, the spider rubbed a leg across what might pass as its chin in a very human gesture. Quite good.
What’s your name? she asked. If she were going to have delusions, she might as well be on a first-name basis with the things.
Whatever you care to call me, was the quick answer.
How about Mr. Spider? Not very imaginative, I know.
That’ll do. Thanks for the cuppa. He gave her a wave and then skittered across the room, vanishing under an old bow front buffet.
At least you aren’t the size of an omnibus anymore, she said.
I could be if you wish, the voice replied from under the buffet.
No, thanks. You’re fine just the way you are.
She returned to the newspapers. The reports were a mishmash of actual incidents and embroidered rumors: bodies found in the Thames or along the railroad tracks; a number of assaults upon persons, mostly due to the effects of excessive drink; and speculation about the identity of the Whitechapel murderer. Most believed the lunatic had to be a foreigner––no well-bred Englishman would ever contemplate such hideous crimes. The Jews were an odds-on favorite, especially as the East End was bulging with refugees from the Czar’s pogroms. Those who labored on the Thames’ cattle boats were on the list, as well as physicians, butchers and folks who worked in mortuaries. None of the guesses would ever bear fruit.
Then there were the droves of helpful citizens who wrote the papers, offering suggestions how to catch the killer. Some of the ideas were helpful, but most were pure fantasy. Put constables on the street dressed as women, one wrote. Cynda had seen a couple of those; at least she hoped they were guys. By the time the murders reached their peak, a third of the City of London’s constabulary would be dawdling on the streets. All for naught.
Jack would vanish into foggy legend, adding to his cachet.
Cynda heard the sound of a key in the front door and Mildred’s shuffling along the hallway to meet the newcomer. The doctor’s voice answered the housekeeper’s greeting and declined her offer of tea in the same sentence. Then Cynda heard her name mentioned.
She’s in the parlor, reading. Got the evening papers strewn all over creation. I don’t know what it means, Mildred explained.
I’ll check on her.
That would be grand. She seems better, but one never knows.
No, one never does, Cynda murmured to herself.
A dark shape filled the doorway.
Good evening, Doctor, she said looking up. He seemed to shimmer around the edges. She blinked her eyes and the illusion passed.
Good evening, Alastair replied. He sounded cheerful for a change, a one-eighty from his earlier diffidence. I see Keats got you home safely.
He did. Your friend is quite the force of nature.
It could be argued you are the same, Miss Lassiter, the doctor replied in an amused tone.
Jacynda. And thank you, I’ll regard that as a compliment.
I would. He edged into the room and took a chair near her, bending over to consider her collection of papers. Any luck?
Cynda’s neck cramped from the abnormal position. She massaged it just above the high collar. There are a few unidentified bodies at the local morgues. I probably should check into them, though none of the descriptions sound like Chris.
The doctor turned solemn. I sincerely hope that is not the case.
Reality struck. What if Chris were dead? How would she get him to ’057?
Jacynda? the doctor asked. Apparently, her thoughts had registered on her face.
I’m having trouble thinking of Chris in the past tense. He’s so full of life, like your friend Keats.
Alastair leaned back in the chair. Like Keats. What if that pest weren’t around? That would be a loss, he said to himself.
It’s very important I find Chris and as soon as possible.
He heard the desperation. A single woman, most likely with child. How would she cope if her lover were dead? Would her family accept her condition or cast her onto the street? He grew heartsick at the thought.
What’s in the envelope? she asked, pointing.
Alastair realized he’d been clutching it in his hand. He opened the flap with his thumb. Inside was one hundred pounds.
Good heavens, he said, fanning the money onto his lap. He’d not expected that much.
Been playing the ponies, have we?
No, it’s a donation for the clinic.
That’s wonderful.
He stared at the bills as his companion rose. She reached for the cup and saucer, unsteady on her feet.
I’ll tidy for you, he offered, sensing her weariness. That earned him a grateful smile. She collected the newspapers, placing them under her arm.
I’m glad things are working out for you, she said.
Before he could reply, she was climbing the stairs. Despite her hasty departure, she hadn’t been able to hide the unspoken prayer. If things were working out for him, maybe they would for her.
May God make it so, he whispered, tucking the donation into his coat pocket.
Cynda woke to a peculiar sensation. It felt as if something had brushed against her cheek. She wondered if it was her personal delusion, but discarded that notion. This was softer, more tentative than an arachnid’s hairy leg.
A shimmer in the air caught her notice. She blinked, but it remained. It couldn’t be a trick of the light; there was little of it coming through the soot-begrimed window. As if realizing it was being surveyed, the shimmer vanished.
Rubbing her face in exhaustion, Cynda shook her head. Great, now I’m seeing ghosts. She rolled over and fell back to sleep.
The dream felt real, the room indistinct, as if viewed through fine lace. A set of boots positioned near the bed, a pair of stockings draped over them. Alastair moved closer, staring at the woman as she slept. Her rhythmic breathing made her breasts rise and fall under the bedclothes. Her hair, now unbound, lay scattered across the pillow in light-brown waves. She murmured in her sleep, calling a name. Was it his? He took a step closer, reaching toward her…
Alastair awoke with a sudden jerk and sat upright in the bed, causing the frame to creak.
No! Crossing his arms over his chest, he breathed deeply. The sensation passed. He was whole again.
His hands dropped into his lap in resignation. Rising, he dashed cold water on his face from the basin. It was not difficult to send oneself to another location while asleep—mere child’s play to one of his kind. Venturing, they called it. It had been a lark at first, spying on people without them knowing. He’d learned of his father’s midnight trysts with the housekeeper that way. Learned that a father’s deeds were often at odds with his words.
Alastair returned to his bed, the frame creaking once again. He thought of the woman asleep in the room next door. What was it about Jacynda Lassiter? Why am I drawn toward her? Pity, perhaps?
With a long sigh, he rose and dressed. If he fell asleep, he’d return to Jacynda’s room as he had every night since she’d arrived. If he succumbed and began to venture regularly, the desire to go en mirage would accelerate. He would become like the others, and The Conclave would win. He glanced at his watch after pulling on his outer garments. Just past two-thirty.
I’ll go to the clinic. He wouldn’t venture once he was there. The lure appeared to be the woman next door.
Careful to make little noise, he tiptoed downstairs, donning his boots at the front door. He made sure to secure the lock. After a troubled look at Jacynda’s window, he jammed his hands in his pockets and set off toward Whitechapel High Street.
Oblivious to his surroundings, he failed to notice the figure following in his wake.
There was activity on the streets despite the late hour: workers heading home, prostitutes trying to earn their coins for the night’s lodging. Shifty men in dark corners watched him with jaded eyes.
The chilly night air made him tug his coat collar up for warmth.
Alastair knew he was acting the fool. Though he only had a few coins in his pocket, his clothes were worth stealing, if nothing more.
A woman called to him. He didn’t bother to acknowledge the offer. Despite the killer’s savage handiwork, they still worked the streets. They had little choice. Most clustered close to the pubs until they closed, following a set route from boozing-ken to boozing-ken on the troll for customers. Some pocketed the few coins they made and bought a bed at one of the doss houses.
Others drank their income and went in search of more money.
Once bright pigeons, they faded into drab nothingness until the cobblestones swallowed their bones. Every day, new arrivals flocked from the country, fresh-faced and eager, inexorably following the same path.
’Ello, doc. Out for a stroll, are we? a voice called. He turned to find one of the clinic’s regulars staggering toward him. Aggie was in her forties now. Her pale, moon face registered a love of gin. She reached out to grab Alastair’s arm to steady herself.