God created man, and we’re hardly perfect, Keats observed.
You are agnostic, aren’t you? Keats nodded. I must admit, I wonder sometimes. Why would God make man so flawed?
Perhaps to watch us learn and grow, Keats said.
Well, He must be deeply disappointed. We’re not very quick students, are we?
No, we’re not. Come, let’s find a hansom and I’ll drop you at the boarding house. I need to get some sleep.
Did I interrupt your appointed rounds tonight? Alastair asked, his tone more sociable.
In a way, my friend; in a way. You may have complicated my life beyond measure.
The knock at Cynda’s door wasn’t a surprise. She knew Keats would find the errant doctor, who would then learn about the killings. And then Alastair would think about her real job and what that entailed. How can I justify what I don’t believe?
When she cracked the door, Alastair was standing on the other side. Under his exhaustion lurked another emotion: moral outrage. Not waiting for her invitation, he pushed into the room.
Cynda closed the door and leaned against it. What if she’d been wrong and the man she’d seen near Mitre Square was in her bedroom at this moment? Had he fooled both her and Jonathon?
You knew, he said in a low whisper, like a cold draught over the moors. You knew and you didn’t stop it!
Mindful of the others in the boarding house, Cynda whispered back, I couldn’t, Alastair. It’s what happened.
Last night, you constantly asked as to the time. I thought it odd then, but now I know why. You knew precisely when those women would die.
She didn’t reply. He stormed on. Do you realize we walked through Mitre Square on the way to Bury Street?
Yes.
Yet you didn’t think to mention that someone would die there a few hours hence?
No. A Time Rover isn’t allowed to—
To hell with that! he spat in a hoarse whisper, shocking her with his oath. If your beloved future is so uncaring, so full of itself that you’d let two innocent women be slaughtered, then I wish you’d never come here in the first place.
In some ways, so do I.
Moving forward, she grasped his arm over the top of the wound, squeezing hard. He winced visibly and yanked it away.
Why do you insist on doing that? You know that hurts me.
Because the killer in Mitre Square tonight was leaning against a wall with that arm.
His eyes widened in the dim light. You saw him?
Yes.
My God, do you know how dangerous that was? he hissed.
Yes. Oh God, yes.
Why were you there? Bloodthirsty curiosity?
Their eyes met, and she saw the moment he understood. You thought it was me…
I had to know.
He looked away, disgusted. Yet you won’t go to the police and tell them what you saw.
I can’t change history, Alastair. If I’d warned the two victims and they didn’t die, then maybe two others would…ones who weren’t meant to.
No death is acceptable if you can prevent it, he said, glaring back.
She shook her head. I hate to tell you, but your East-End sadist is a novice. In a couple of decades, you’ll be able to rub elbows with a revolutionary living in Whitechapel. When he finishes his reign of terror in Mother Russia, more than thirty million of his countrymen will be dead. Could you creep up behind him and put a bullet in his brain, knowing you’d change the course of history? Could you play God, Doctor Montrose?
Alastair’s body shook. How can you be so heartless? You know the faces of these poor women, you know their final death agonies, and yet you ignore the chance to save them.
I am not here to fix things, Alastair. I’m here to collect a tourist and go home.
Then do your accursed job. The sooner you are out of my life, the better. He flung open the door. Angry footsteps thudded in 233
the hallway and onto the stairs.
Cynda closed the door, but made no effort to go to the window. She knew he’d be striding down the street, righteous indignation in every step.
I had no choice, she whispered.
The scratching of pen on paper filled the candlelit room.