Chapter 14
Thursday, 27 September, 1888
The cup of tea sent an inviting spiral of steam into the air.
Keats ignored it and consulted his notes from his latest assignment. It had been an exercise in futility, given what he’d discovered.
Clearing his throat, he addressed his superior. The barrister’s son has a penchant for gambling and expensive courtesans.
Nevertheless, he possesses a solid alibi for both murders. He is not in debt that I can gather. In fact, he’s rather lucky at cards.
Fisher arched an eyebrow. What does that tell you, Sergeant?
That someone wished to discomfit him or his father. Settling scores, I think. Perhaps by someone who wasn’t quite so lucky at cards.
Fisher nodded with approval. Keats returned to his notes.
The Conservative noble’s nephew is inclined toward…he was in France during the second murder, spending time with his lover, the son of a winery owner. Two separate sources state that he has no interest in women at all. He spends most of his time in Paris.
Fisher nodded. Avoiding a charge of gross indecency, no doubt.
Most likely. As for the chemist, he is so blind he has to hold medicine bottles against his nose to read the labels. He couldn’t cut someone’s throat if he tried, let alone extricate a woman’s womb in the dark.
And the dentist?
Keats took a hurried sip of tea. A bit more promising, but not likely. His servants swear he was in bed the night of both murders. His colleagues speak well of him, and he has no history of violence against women. His sole crime, if you call it that, is an overriding passion to study the murders in detail. He collects all the newspaper accounts and regales his patients with theories as to the murderer’s identity.
Like the majority of London’s citizens, I wager. In your opinion, all of these were for naught? Fisher asked, riffling through the closest file on his desk.
Indeed, Keats replied, barely stifling a yawn. However, if I ever need a barrister or someone to pull a tooth, I know whom to consult.
Not an entire waste of time, then, Fisher replied with a hint of a smile. I have one more for you. He pushed a piece of paper across the desk.
Keats collected the sheet. A cold sweat bloomed underneath his shirt as he read the name. His eyes darted up and then down again.
Fisher continued, The fellow is a doctor in the East End.
Apparently, his behavior has attracted someone’s attention. Do check him out, Sergeant.
Keats swallowed heavily. The name wouldn’t change, no matter how many prayers he uttered. Had The Conclave lost their collective minds? Surely they wouldn’t dare to…
Sergeant?
Keats put the sheet on the desk, his hand steadier than it had a right to be. Fisher had been honest with him about the dying Transitive. That trust had to be returned.
Alastair Montrose and I are well acquainted, sir. I consider him a valued friend.
Fisher’s face grew pensive. I see.
I hold him in extremely high regard, and that would color my report.
Fisher refilled his cup with deliberate calm. Tell me about him.
That wasn’t unexpected. His superior wouldn’t let him off the hook easily.
I’ve known Alastair for about a year, just after he returned from his medical studies in Baltimore. I met him through a mutual acquaintance.
Does he have surgical skills?
Some.
Married?
No, though he was engaged for a time. I have found Alastair to be a man of high moral standards, though a bit rigid in his viewpoints. He is an excellent physician and completely dedicated to the care of his patients, often to the exclusion of everything else in his life.
Is he a fanatic of some sort? Fisher asked, stirring cream into his tea.
No, just committed, sir. He shares a clinic with another doctor. Both men invest every spare moment in its operation.
They treat an average of thirty to fifty patients an evening, those with little recourse other than the hospital.
Fisher gave a shudder. Not an appealing alternative. You said that Dr. Montrose was engaged at one point. Explain that.
With great care, Keats related Alastair’s life-changing decision and how it brought him to Whitechapel.
Fisher tapped his chin. Quite extraordinary. Nevertheless, for a moment let us assume that whoever brought his name to our attention has a valid reason for doing so. In your opinion, is Dr.
Montrose capable of these murders?
Keats took some tea to steady his nerves. Could his friend be the killer, convinced in some irrational fashion that he was mitigating their suffering?
He had no choice but to speak the truth. Alastair is quite capable of harming someone, Chief Inspector. He was instrumental in a man’s death in Wales, though it was in self-defense.
Before Fisher could pose the question, Keats cut him off. I verified his story with the police in Caernarfon. It was indeed as he reported. Keats exhaled a puff of air. Would Alastair tear women apart in such a frenzy? No, that is not in my friend’s nature.
Are you sure? You checked his story, despite your regard for him. That implies you didn’t entirely trust him to tell the truth.
Keats closed his eyes and then gave a slow nod. I wasn’t sure then, but I am now, sir. I have watched him give his last pennies to the poor, forgoing food so they might have a bed for the night.
My friend’s obsession lies in mercy, not murder.
Fisher did not reply, but rose and drifted to the window. He stared at the street scene for a time. When he finally turned around, he proclaimed, Write a report to that effect, and I will consider Dr. Montrose cleared.
Sir? Keats asked, astounded. I could be mistaken as to Alastair’s character, Chief Inspector.
And it’s possible that blind chemist could be a ravening butcher and we’ve given him a free pass. Our job involves making judgments. On occasion, we make the correct ones.
Yes, sir, Keats said, taking that as dismissal.
One last thing, Sergeant.
Sir?
Get some sleep, will you? You look exhausted.
I am, sir. However, I must keep an eye out for Flaherty.
Nevertheless, if you’re too weary to think properly, you will make mistakes. Fisher pulled out his watch and flipped it open.
Take a few hours off, have a good lunch and a lie-down. Consider that an order.
Keats grinned. If it is an order, sir, how can I disobey?
There’s a good man. I’ll need your reports by tomorrow morning, though.
Yes, sir.
Keats remained oblivious to his surroundings until he was out of the building and savoring the mid-morning sunshine. Jamming on his hat, he hurried toward the omnibus stop. He would do precisely as his boss had ordered, providing his mind would stop hounding him with questions for which there were no answers.
2057 A.D.
TEM Enterprises The man sitting across from him was legendary; yet somehow, T.E. Morrisey wasn’t what Ralph had expected. The Vid-News reports made him appear older, less careworn. In person, he seemed like any other geek, though better dressed than most. His British accent was the most notable feature, apart from his penetrating eyes. Currently involved in an online Vid-Call, he’d motioned for Ralph to take a seat. Or actually a pillow, as there were no chairs in the room.
Ralph gingerly parked himself and tried to calm down. The summons to TEM Enterprises had caught him offguard and sent him into an uncharacteristic panic. He’d always dreamed of meeting the man who had created the amazing software that powered the Time Immersion industry. Now he sat across from him.
While he waited, Ralph took a visual tour of the room. It was unique, just like its owner. Stateof-the-art time technology equipment rubbed elbows with priceless paintings and exquisitely carved marble statues. A Bach cantata played in the background, circumventing the hum of the machinery. A pleasant marriage of old and new.
Then things got odd: the furniture was set low to the ground so that you were required to sit on small pillows to access the holokeyboard and the terminals. It reminded Ralph of a Japanese tatami room with computer equipment. The paintings were positioned about three feet off the ground, as if designed to be viewed by toddlers.
Before he could puzzle further on that discovery, Morrisey ended his call and turned toward him. Pardon the intrusion, Mr.
Hamilton.
Ralph took a breath and pushed aside the desire to gush.
Instead, he focused on the more important issue––the orphaned Rovers. Not a problem. How can I help you?
Morrisey shook his head. More to the point, how can I help you?
Ralph frowned. The only way you can help me is to retrieve a few TIC Rovers, but I suspect that isn’t why I’m here.
First lesson, Mr. Hamilton: Never make assumptions. That will be paramount if you are to work for me.
Ralph started in astonishment. Me…you? he sputtered.
Distrust set in, fostered by the lessons learned at the hands of his former employer. Why?
We share a common goal, Mr. Hamilton. We both want the Rovers retrieved.
What’s in it for you, other than good PR?
Morrisey stiffened. Good public relations has nothing to do with it. Rovers are not disposable.
Okay, I apologize. So, why me? I’m just another time jockey.
You have a good reputation, you possess a conscience, and I need your knowledge of TIC.
Ralph furrowed his brow. You’ll bring every Rover home, no matter how long it takes? he asked.
A solemn nod from Morrisey.
Well, I’ll be damned. Ralph grew pensive. Do I have to sell my soul to you or anything?
A muted chuckle. No, just the standard contract.
Same thing, Ralph muttered. He pondered for only a halfsecond.
Tell me what you want me to do.
A reassuring nod. TIC’s been altering the chron logs for the last few weeks. We need to verify exactly how many Rovers are in the time stream. Once we know, we will access their time interfaces and begin the retrieval process. I want all of them out in a very short period of time so TIC doesn’t realize what we’re up to. Is that clear?
That made sense. Once the Rovers returned, all hell would break loose; TIC’s lies would be revealed, and the government would step in. I’ll see what I can find out. I have contacts inside TIC who can help me figure out what’s really happening.
Indeed you do.
Ralph blinked. How do you know that?
Morrisey avoided the question. Do not mention my name when you’re making your inquiries. It is important that no one be aware that you are in my employ, at least at this point in time.
You know that one of the Rovers has died in 1888?
Morrisey’s eyes grew distant. Yes. He looked away. Do your research Mr. Hamilton. We need answers as soon as possible.
A few minutes later, Ralph was positioned on a pillow in front of one of the low tables, working his contacts via the Vid-Net Mail system. His back complained about the lack of a chair. He was having second thoughts. Joining forces with Morrisey might be a gigantic mistake. Everything he’d heard about the guy had been filtered through the media—not the most reliable of sources. Was he being played for a sucker? Did Morrisey really intend to honor his word?
I’ve got no choice. Cynda has to come home.
Behind him, he heard Morrisey rise. Ralph hazarded a quick glance over his shoulder. The genius had arranged himself into a Lotus position on a large pillow facing one of the masterpieces and was inspecting the art with a surreal intensity that bordered on obsession.
That’s why the pictures are so far down on the wall.
Shaking his head, Ralph returned to his work. Typing furiously, he wondered how long it would be before the White Rabbit made an appearance, muttering about his ears and whiskers.