Daniel shook his head. I am sorry, but there is no choice in this matter.
Alastair rolled down his sleeves and retrieved his coat. I’ll go to the Commercial Street station, he offered.
Caught up in the emotions surrounding Chris’ death, Cynda hadn’t thought this through properly. She’d never meant for them to take this any further.
You can’t report this, she insisted. If the police try to trace him, it will create too many awkward questions.
Alastair ignored her and headed for the door.
Wait! she commanded, stepping in front of him.
He halted in his tracks, frowning. You are being irrational, Jacynda. One moment you wish to know the cause of your paramour’s death, and now that we do, you will not allow us to proceed. Please step aside.
Ah, damn, she grumbled. I didn’t want to have to do this.
Alastair’s frown grew at her profanity. She pointed toward the body. Chris is not from here…he’s…
Both physicians stared at her.
Now what? If they make this a murder case, they’ll have to reopen the inquest, call witnesses and…
She had no choice but to set her own agenda. I’ll show you why you don’t want to go to the police.
I doubt you have an argument that will prove compelling,
Alastair replied, clearly aggravated at her behavior.
Lock the door. He didn’t move. Do it!
After a quick glance at Daniel and a lengthy sigh, Alastair did as she instructed.
Cynda removed her mantelet and hat, placing them on a bench. Digging her interface out of its hiding place, she ran it over Chris’ left arm. A hollow beep sounded. Swallowing hard, she zeroed in on the location of the ESR Chip, the task made difficult by the postmortem swelling.
See this? she said, tapping on the swollen skin just above the elbow.
Daniel leaned forward and palpated the area with his fingers.
There doesn’t appear to be anything there. He shot Alastair a disgruntled look, as if she were pulling his leg.
Just make an incision.
What is it?
I’ll show you once you take it out.
Muttering under his breath, Daniel fetched a scalpel. He made the cut, and then enlarged the incision until he encountered a tiny flat disk. There is something there. It is incredibly thin.
Removing it, he held the disk between his thumb and forefinger, transfixed. It appears to be some sort of… His voice trailed off, replaced by a pensive frown.
Cynda demanded, I need your word as gentlemen that you will never speak of what I’m about to show you. Is that understood? The two physicians traded perplexed looks.
Daniel nodded in resignation. You have my word.
You have mine, as well, Alastair said. Must you be so melodramatic about this whole thing?
Ignoring him, Cynda placed the watch on Chris’ chest. As it began to unfold, she heard both men gasp. She didn’t want to think how many laws she was violating.
The doctors stared in frank awe.
What in heaven’s name? Alastair murmured.
Taking Chris’ ESR Chip from the bewildered Daniel, Cynda plugged it into the watch’s input portal. The interface pondered for a moment before a holographic screen appeared eight inches above the corpse’s unmoving chest. Chris’ face lit the screen in full color, a stark contrast to the ashen copy that resided beneath.
Cynda steeled herself. Now would be the hardest part.
Hi, I’m Chris Stone, he said in a cheery tone. But then you know that from the chip. I love beer and I hate water. And I love to time travel. That’s what I do best. I’m one of the best Time Rovers there are, except for maybe the crazy lady.
Cynda jammed her lips together to keep them from trembling, lowering her eyes until Chris’ face disappeared.
A chirp resounded. Task? a synthetic voice inquired.
Run vital statistics including most recent employment, she ordered in a voice made thick with tears. She thought for a moment and added, Do not include sexual history stats. She didn’t want to hear Chris’ list of conquests. It was enough to know she was the last one.
The dead man’s blood type, medical history, education and employment record, including each one of his time leaps, appeared on the holographic screen above his unmoving chest. Chris’ foray to the Ottoman Empire included a note about a near-fatal neck wound incurred while protecting a tourist from an enraged husband who’d caught him in bed with one of his many wives. A final beep ended the holographic resume. A technological tombstone, minus Chris’ date of death.
My God, Daniel murmured.
Cynda looked up into the astonished faces of two Victorian gentlemen who had just seen one hundred and seventy years in the future.
No police, she insisted. They can’t investigate the murder of someone who hasn’t been born yet.
Cynda reduced the watch to its usual configuration and hid it under the ruffle on her bodice. Her companions remained silent.
She could only imagine what was going on in their minds.
It was Alastair who broke the silence first. Well, that explains your odd diction, he said quietly.
She turned toward him in surprise. Of the pair, she’d expected him to be the most skeptical.
What year are you from?
2057. Chris and I are time specialists for a company called Time Immersion Corporation.
You actually believe all that? Daniel asked, shifting a dumbfounded expression between Cynda and his partner.
I find it improbable, Alastair said. However, I lack another explanation. He gave her a soft smile and placed a reassuring hand on her elbow. A simple gesture, yet it held such power.
Thanks, she whispered.
He nodded. Someday, I may ask the same leap of faith from you.
Nonsense—utter and complete nonsense, Daniel spouted.
Man cannot travel through time. It is not physically possible.
Cynda shrugged. Unfortunately, it is. A hundred years ago, the telegraph, gas lights and antiseptic didn’t exist. Give humans nearly two more centuries, and you’d be surprised what we can come up with. And not all of it is good stuff, either.
Those discoveries are a far cry from what you propose, Daniel protested.
Perhaps in your way of thinking. Still, I’m here, and so is Chris, and neither one of us was born in this century. Cynda trailed her fingers along her lover’s arm. We don’t usually die on the job.
Is that why you see spiders and lightning bolts? Alastair asked.
Yes.
You see things? Daniel retorted. Oh, heavens, come now.
You can’t possibly make me believe that you’re from twentywhenever.
I do not know what it is we just witnessed, but my mind cannot accept it. It has to be some trick.
And what would be the purpose of that? Cynda said, her anger rising. Gee, I’m bored. I think I’ll just pop over to Whitechapel and baffle a couple of physicians this afternoon.
Alastair’s hand returned to her elbow. Jacynda, you must give us time to adjust to this most unusual state of affairs.
She gazed into his eyes and then nodded. I’m sorry. I don’t have any other proof to show you. None that won’t seriously screw history, at least.
Turning toward his partner, Alastair gallantly took her side.
During the autopsy, you stated that this fellow had remarkably healthy teeth, the like of which you’ve never seen, and that the old wound on his neck was closed so fine you couldn’t see the sutures.
We don’t use them, Cynda interjected.
Daniel glowered. Indeed, I will give you all that. Still, the technology required for man to traverse time—
Could just be possible. We have no notion of what the future holds, Daniel. Either this woman is capable of an extraordinary illusion, or she comes from another century. I feel that the latter makes more sense.
Daniel crossed his arms and addressed Cynda. Then if this is true—and mind you I am still dubious on that point—what were you two doing here? Collecting souvenirs?
Cynda chuckled, despite the circumstances. No, collecting missing academics. In our time, people pay good money to come to your time and nose around. Two of our tourists went missing. I found mine, Chris… She left out a deep sigh and let her gaze fall to the sheet-draped form.
Your first morning at the boarding house, you inquired about Professor Turner. Was he one of your…clients? Alastair asked.
Yes, he was.
That doesn’t surprise me. When he first arrived, he seemed very unsure of his surroundings, as if concerned he might make a mistake. I thought him peculiar, to be honest. He just didn’t fit.
Like me.
Precisely.
Turner didn’t return when he was supposed to. It was my job to find him and get him home.
Daniel pulled the sheet over Chris’ body. Who was this unfortunate fellow hunting?
Cynda sensed a subtle shift toward acceptance. A psychiatrist named Samuelson. I believe you call them alienists.
Daniel shot his companion a sidelong glance. Your verdict, Alastair?
I have no desire to explain to the police why they will not be able to trace this person. As it has officially been ruled a suicide, I suggest we leave it at that. There is enough hysteria in Whitechapel at present. If the papers discover this man’s origin, all sorts of strange things might happen. We’ll be right in the middle, and the clinic will suffer for it.
Daniel scrunched his face in thought, then threw his hands up in exasperation. So be it. I shall go along, but I do not feel this is proper in the least.
Thank you, gentlemen, Cynda said, meaning it. The future doesn’t need any more problems than it already has.
I still think it’s highly improbable, Daniel added, as if he just had to have the last word.
As long as Chris’ death remains a suicide, the thread of history isn’t threatened. I hope. History is pretty resilient. You really have to work hard to muck it up.
How remarkable, Daniel muttered, shaking his head. I never imagined I’d be having such a conversation.
I will hold you to your word, gentlemen.
Nods returned from both physicians.
I’m certainly not going to speak of this, Daniel said. I value my practice too much for that.
Precisely, Alastair said.
What is the future like, if I may ask? Daniel queried.
Cynda shook her head. It’s good and bad. Technology may change, but people don’t. We still want the same things––love, respect, three meals a day. And we’re still willing to kill for them.
Have you learned how to cure all diseases? Daniel asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
Most. She gazed at the sheet-draped form. We still die, some sooner than they should.
There was a silence, one that seemed proper. Both doctors bowed their heads, if they were standing at a graveside. The gesture touched Cynda’s heart.
I would like to have Chris cremated and placed in an urn, one that doesn’t weigh a ton.
I’ll see to the arrangements, Alastair offered.
You’ll need money. She parked herself on a bench and unlaced one of her black boots. Once it was off, she extracted Turner’s currency and handed the money to Alastair. He counted it and returned most of it.
This shall be plenty, he said, sticking the bills in his trouser pocket. Why do you store money in your boot? Is that how it’s done in your time?
She laughed. No, just when I’m here. Your toolers are far too adept at picking pockets.
Ah, well, you have that right.
She struggled to lace the boot while cursing under her breath.
To her amazement, Alastair knelt in front of her, assuming the task despite his damaged arm.
If I had any doubt you’re from the future, your ineptitude with this task puts it to rest. Only small children are incapable of lacing their own boots, he said, bemused.
She watched as he expertly worked the laces. Small children and Time Rovers.
I am very sorry about your inamorato, he said in a lowered voice, pitched so that only she could hear him.
Thank you. Chris was a good guy. We hadn’t decided where it was all going, but we were less lonely when we were together.
I understand. Their eyes remained locked for a second. He returned to the lacing. Once it was finished, she rose, dusting off her skirts absentmindedly.
He offered his arm. Let me walk you home. I want you to rest.
She shook her head. No, thank you. I’ll be fine.
What do you intend to do if you find your lover’s murderer?
he asked.
An intense calm filled her. It’s best you don’t know that.
She swept out the door before either of the physicians could offer advice. It was best they didn’t know what she had planned for the bastard who’d taken Chris Stone away from her.
Perhaps it was a case of nerves that drove Keats to the clinic, an intense need to validate his endorsement of Alastair’s character. Or maybe it was instinct, now that he thought about it.
From the moment he knocked on the clinic’s door, the encounter had taken a disagreeable turn. Alastair cracked the portal and stared at him as if he were an unwelcome beggar.
Yes, Keats? he asked in a chilly voice.
I wished to ask you a few questions regarding Miss Jacynda’s missing paramour. I have an idea how we might be able to track him, Keats said, choosing his words carefully so Alastair wouldn’t deem him a threat. He’d already noted the doctor’s disapproval when it came to his involvement with the American lady.
A vigorous shake of the head. No need. He’s been found. The coroner has ruled his death a suicide, Alastair retorted. He started to close the door.
Keats slammed a palm against the wood, making the door quake. Wait a moment. That’s not good enough. Why did he kill himself? Perhaps there is something else involved here. Coroners often make mistakes.
Alastair’s face grew wary. Nonsense, Keats, you’re letting that overactive imagination of yours run riot. A man does not throw himself into the Thames without adequate cause. The fellow must have had personal issues of some dire nature of which we are unaware. My task is to help Jacynda adjust to the loss. You have no part in this.
Your task? Keats’ jaw clenched at the sharp rebuke. Leaning forward, he poked a finger at Alastair’s chest and exclaimed, Stop treating me as if I were still in knee pants.
Alastair studied him with cool disdain. Then if you’re so keen to play detective, find the chemist who sold this. It was found in the dead man’s pocket.
The doctor thrust a small bottle toward him. Keats snatched it out of his grasp. The label was waterlogged. His friend had just given him a nearly impossible task.
Send the pest on a fool’s errand, is that it? I shall accept your challenge, he said. Good day to you, sir.
Keats retreated to an obscured location across the street, his hand rhythmically opening and closing his pocket watch to burn off some of his anger. Alastair’s treatment had singed him deeply, especially after he’d put his career on the line for someone he considered a friend.
Perhaps my assessment of you has been flawed from the start.
A short time later, a wagon rattled up the street, a plain coffin in the back. When it stopped in front of the clinic, curiosity overtook him. Keats watched from the shadows as the coffin was ferried inside the clinic and then back out again.
So who’s in the box? he murmured. Jacynda’s lover, perhaps?
The deceased came to rest at Owens & Sons Mortuary. Keats waited until the coffin was inside, and then knocked on the door.
With the right approach, he’d learn the identity of their latest customer. That would settle one of his questions.
While he waited for someone to answer, he retrieved the bottle from his pocket and held it to the light. It was half-empty. The exterior smelled heavily of the tide. He removed the cap and took a sniff. Laudanum, he muttered. His mother’s lengthy illness had imprinted the smell in his memory. Studying the ornate border on the upper part of the label, a smile crept across his face.
Fortune had dealt him a card that even the self-righteous Alastair Montrose couldn’t play.
Malachi Livingston swept his gaze over his three companions, striving to keep boredom at bay. In their private room on the second floor of No. 43, all was the picture of apparent contentment. The hearth blazed, ample food arrayed itself on a long table against the wall. Ronald, the adept steward, hovered nearby.
What’s a six letter word for peril? Cartwright asked, squinting at the newspaper crossword puzzle in his lap, his face screwed up in concentration.
Hastings shrugged, florid from two brandies. Though located the furthest away from the fire, a glint of sweat hung on his broad brow. Stinton appeared not to have heard the question, industriously polishing a jacket button with his sleeve as if preparing for a military inspection.
Six letters? Menace, Livingston replied. It comes from the Vulgar Latin, mincia.
That’s it! Cartwright said, penciling in the letters.
Livingston’s eyes darted toward the mantel clock. Beneath his monk-like calm, he analyzed the vibrations in the room.