Chapter 21
Cynda stumbled up the street, block after block, oblivious to her surroundings. Tears streamed down her face for Kate, and all the others who died in back alleys. If there were ever a demarcation in Cynda’s life, it was now: A jagged red line separating indifference from brutal reality. In the past, she’d zipped into a time period, did what she needed to do and zipped back out, untouched by the people she’d met, more fascinated with the places than the inhabitants. As the Rovers’ black humor put it, Here today, dead tomorrow.
Chris had joked that it was like theater. You watched the play, but when it was all over, you shuffled out of the building, never caring what happened after the curtain closed. Now all Cynda saw were the actors, each and every one of them. She was part of the play, caught up in it. Instead of revulsion, now she marveled at the small things: the flower vendor selling vivid crimson roses that appeared in lapels and pinned to women’s jackets; the smell of fresh-baked bread and yeasty beer; the raucous singing that flowed out of the dance halls at all hours; the tiny monkey who flipped his hat for coins while his master ground out a tune on the barrel organ.
Behind her, a police whistle screamed in the night air like a banshee. Cynda’s hand flew to her mouth. Constable Watkins had just entered Mitre Square and discovered the most horrific sight of his entire police career.
Leaning against a lamppost, tears threatened again. As she fought for control, her mind conjured up the grainy autopsy photograph, the patchwork quilt of a human being that had once been Catherine Eddowes. If being a Time Rover meant not caring, then Cynda’s career was over. She could never again look into the face of a prostitute without thinking of Kate, remembering that last laugh with the man who would destroy her.
There was the sound of approaching footsteps. She ignored them. A hand grabbed her arm; she spun out of its grasp.
Grappling for the truncheon in her pocket, she pulled it free.
Hold on! Keats demanded. He was dressed in his usual dark suit and bowler, his eyes glowing angry. What in God’s name are you doing on the street alone at this hour? Have you no notion of how dangerous it is? Before she could answer, he pointed at her face. You’ve been crying.
I was trying to find Alastair, she snapped, slapping away his hand. Why are you here?
I was… he hesitated, and then his anger dissipated in a stream of air from his lips. Doing the same. They stared at each other.
He went out earlier, she said.
I know. I followed you instead. While you don’t give a fig about your life, some of us do.
A fig? she asked, amused. She stashed her weapon into the skirt pocket, covering it with the cloak.
A fig, he repeated, his face set, clearly not in any mood for humor. Come, let’s get you home. He reached for her arm, but she pulled away.
He sighed. You are so stubborn.
They walked on in silence. From behind them, another police whistle. Keats half-turned, pensive. What the devil? he said. It couldn’t be…
Sir? a voice called out.
They turned and found a policeman a few feet away, a hand resting on his truncheon.
Yes, Constable? Keats replied.
Just wishing to know your business, sir, given the late hour.
I am escorting the lady home, Keats replied.
The constable’s attention shifted to Cynda, using her clothing to measure her social status. She could almost hear the mental calculations; not posh but clean and tidy. Probably not a whore, but if so, one who commanded a living wage. Definitely a woman with no sense to be out at this hour.
Your name, sir? the constable asked, moving his attention back to her companion. Blessedly, he’d not noted she’d been crying.
Keats.
Occupation?
There was a hesitation, a murmur under his breath, and then Keats produced a card from his coat pocket. The constable moved forward and took it, squinting at the print.
A blush of embarrassment. Oh, sorry, Detective-Sergeant.
We’re under orders to speak to every couple we encounter after midnight. Just checking all is right, you understand.
Quite proper.
Right you are, sir, the constable said, returning the card to Keats. It’s been a nasty night. First the one in Berner Street, and now…
Another one? Where?
Mitre Square, sir. And this one’s… The constable stopped abruptly, gave Cynda an uncomfortable look, and then his eyes returned to Keats. A right bad one, they say.
Good God, Keats murmured, shaking his head.
Are you headed to your homes, sir? the constable asked.
Apparently, he’d written them off as being harmless, but he was still doing his duty.
Yes, we are.
Very good, sir. I shan’t keep you.
Good luck in your hunt, Constable.
The man touched his cap in respect. Thank you, Sergeant.
Good morning, miss.
Once the copper was out of range, Cynda grabbed Keats’ arm and pulled him toward her. Detective-Sergeant?
He gave a boyish shrug, as if he’d been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.
City of London or Metropolitan Police?
Special Branch.
The big boys. No wonder Jonathon had been so thorough in taking Chris’ description. And Alastair told him how Chris died.
Alastair doesn’t know you’re a cop, does he?
I’d prefer he not know until I tell him.
Why all the secrecy?
I am on an assignment that demands it.
You’re after the Rip… She glossed over her near-blunder, the…Whitechapel killer, aren’t you?
No, I’m not.
That caught her offguard. Oh.
The last I saw Alastair, he was on Aldgate, headed west. I suspect he is communing with that new bridge they’re building on the Thames. He seems to have a morbid fascination with it.
He’s a techno-junkie, she said without thinking.
Pardon? Keats asked.
Ah…he’s quite keen on technology.
Ah, yes. He says he does his best thinking whilst staring at the thing. Makes no sense to me.
She waited for him to ask about Chris, but he didn’t. An uncomfortable thought rose. Does he think Alastair killed him?
Her mind raged with questions until they reached the street that led to the boarding house. Cynda stopped and placed a hand on Jonathon’s shoulder. For a second, Kate flashed into her mind.
I can walk the rest of the way.
Are you sure? he asked, scanning the street for threats. I should escort you to your door.
No, I want you to find Alastair.
He studied her, and then gave her a brusque nod. Have a safe trip back to New York, Jacynda. I shall miss you. I do wish you would write me when you can.
That might prove a bit difficult, Jonathon, she said. More than you realize.
Instant chagrin. I see.
It isn’t because I don’t want to write you, it’s…
Oh, God that sounded pathetic.
Knowing no other way to apologize, she stepped forward, placed her hands on either side of his face and drew him toward her. The kiss wasn’t hurried. If anything she lingered, savoring it.
His arms went around her waist and drew her in, making her shoulder protest.
When the kiss ended, a sad smile appeared.
I shall miss you even more now. He stepped back, and then strode away without giving his signature bow. She wondered if it was to keep her from seeing his eyes.
As predicted, Keats found his friend parked on a bench along the Thames, hands folded over his chest. The doctor nodded, as if not surprised to see him, and then returned his concentration to the incomplete structure.
Our masters send you to fetch me? the doctor asked sourly.
No.
Then why are you out at this hour? Just rolling out of some dolly-mop’s bed?
Keats’ mouth twitched. I’ve been trying to locate you.
Why?
Stand up and take off your coat, Keats ordered.
Alastair’s head swiveled around. What?
Do as I say. I must verify there is no blood on you.
Blood?
There’s been two more murders.
Where?
Berner Street and Mitre Square, Keats replied.
Good heavens. I walked through Mitre Square just this evening.
Why?
To see a patient on Bury Street.
Keats pointed. Take off your coat.
How dare–– Alastair stormed, rising to his feet.
Just do it, damn you!
Alastair stripped off his coat and flung it at his friend. He extended his hands like a child commanded to show he’d washed properly, flipping them over to expose the other side. Do you want me to strip naked as well?
Ignoring his sarcasm, Keats studied both hands, paying particular attention to the fingernails. He surveyed the coat and then knelt to examine his friend’s pant legs. There was no sign of blood.
Thank you, he said curtly.
Alastair snatched his coat. How dare you suggest that I––
For God’s sake, Alastair, use your good sense! You were out on your own when two women were murdered. You need someone to vouch for you. Jacynda was worried––
Jacynda?
She heard you leave the boarding house and followed you.
Alastair blanched. Oh God. Tell me she’s safe.
She is unharmed. I escorted her home.
Alastair sighed in relief. Thank you for that.
He sank onto the bench, staring into the flowing darkness.
She knows I’m a Transitive.
What? Keats exclaimed.
I fell asleep in the carriage from Colney Hatch. I ventured, and she caught me. I had no choice but to confess.
Oh, lord, Keats moaned. He slumped on the bench next to the doctor. Yet another complication.
I inadvertently revealed your secret, as well. She has figured out that you were en mirage as a constable the night I was injured.
Oh, bloody hell! A furious frown. What else can go wrong?
Jacynda won’t be inclined to speak of her discovery. She is not entirely without her own secrets.
In the distance came a rhythmic splashing as a rowboat oared its way along the Thames. Keats gazed out at the twin pylons.
Why does this bridge enchant you so much?
A moment passed. It looks so powerful, yet it was created by man. That means it must be flawed. Only God is perfect.