Chapter 22
Sunday, 30 September, 1888
Eternal riddles. One sliced, the other assayed. Centuries hence, they shall puzzle on my night’s work. Frustration abounds. My quest bears no fruit. Can it truly be so deeply hidden, or am I blind to it? If that is the case, then there is no hope.
The tightly wound mountain of bandages on the examining table testified to Alastair’s emotional turmoil. As he rolled the linen, his mind performed the same maneuver, his problems tumbling over and over like a feather caught in a turbulent whirlwind.
Had he been wrong to expect Jacynda to have a heart as big as his? What so deeply attracted him to her? Once she returned to her time, would she laugh at his quaint morals, jesting with her friends about the stuffy doctor who had fallen in love with her?
Exhausted beyond the need for sleep, he rose and leaned in the clinic’s doorway as the East End came alive. Things were different this morning. News of the killings had spread fast. Most of the populace seemed to be milling about on the streets, though it was barely past dawn. Clustering in knots around one of their literate neighbors, they listened with rapt attention as he read from the latest edition. Women dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs; men sported grim expressions.
’E’ll kill us all in the end, one woman said. ’E’s the devil’s own.
The devil’s own, Alastair repeated in a coarse whisper.
Locking the clinic, he tracked his way to the boarding house and collected his medical bag. Some part of him was relieved when he didn’t encounter Jacynda. Too many ill words had passed between them—ones he didn’t feel could be retracted. Hix met him on the stairs, uncommunicative as usual, his eyes concealed behind those smoky spectacles.
Alastair found Davy’s mother alone, the room still warm from the coal fire. She rested in bed, a cup of tea, half an apple and the medicine he’d prescribed nearby. The level in the bottle was noticeably lower, and that meant Davy had taken his job seriously. A wan smile from his patient. She straightened the thin blanket over her lap.
Davy’s selling papers. Said…more women died…and he could make…good money. Everyone wants…to read about it, she explained in weak bursts of speech that corresponded with her need to breathe.
Alastair nodded soberly. There was always money to be made in tragedy. It was a reality of life. It is all the sensation on the streets.
Where’s your nice…lady friend? the woman asked faintly.
She’s… He hesitated and then sighed, returning home today.
Ah. She’s a pretty one.
Alastair sat on the chair next to the bed, warming the stethoscope between his palms. When he deemed it acceptable, he listened to the woman’s lungs. They still sounded like bubbly sludge, but were clearer, her skin less fiery to the touch.
Much better, he said, embroidering the truth. Your fever’s abating.
I thought so.
His mind wandered as he checked her pulse. Soon, Jacynda would be gone. He’d no longer hear her going up and down the stairs with tentative steps, or be able to chide her about seeing things.
In his anger, he’d branded her heartless. His eyes moved to his patient. Was his professional demeanor any different? He’d kept up a brave front for Mrs. Butler and her son, never revealing the complete truth about her illness. Was that any different than Jacynda’s insistence that she couldn’t meddle with history?
To his embarrassment, he realized he’d been holding Mrs.
Butler’s hand and not counting her pulse.
Sorry, a bit distracted, he said.
I understand. It’s been a…hard night for you.
Not as hard as yours. A weak nod returned. I am pleased with your progress.
It’s because of…you and your lady. Davy told me…she gave him hope. It meant a lot…to him.
I didn’t know.
She gave him money. Told him to buy…proper food. He wouldn’t tell…me how much it was. She’s got a good soul, that one.
A good soul. We have to find you a better situation. Your lungs can’t tolerate the char work you do. A nod. You’ve not been eating right, either. Giving most of it to your son, I suspect. She flattened the blanket again, avoiding his eyes. I’ll see if I can find you somewhere to work that isn’t so hard on you.
The woman’s brown eyes moved toward his. She took his hand and squeezed it. You’re a good man, doctor. I don’t fear dying…knowing you’ll watch over Davy.
Alastair stuffed the stethoscope back into his bag, unable to find a suitable reply. She had ultimate faith in him. In truth, he was impotent as any man on the street. He couldn’t forestall death any more than could the lady from the future.
It is being said that we are spending too much time trying to find Flaherty and not enough on others of his ilk, Fisher remarked.
He’ll surface, Keats replied, in no mood to admit his assignment was foundering on the rocks. He’d already heard the rumbles on the way to his boss’ office. The ‘Ram’ was making pointed remarks about how Fisher didn’t have his sergeant on a leash, as if he were some high-strung terrier.
Our superiors have a limited tolerance for the lack of progress, Fisher continued patiently.
Well, that’s their problem, Keats grumbled.
Pardon?
Keats’s eyes popped up to the Chief Inspector. Realizing he’d been surly, he stammered, My…apologies, sir. I’m a bit worn out.
That is obvious. At the rate you’re going, you’ll age twenty years in a week. And trust me, Sergeant, fifty is not a walk in the park.
That made Keats smile. No, sir.
You’re trying too hard, young man. I have done the same in your position. I suspect it’s not only to bring a criminal to justice but, perhaps, to impress one’s superiors along the way? Keats gave a conciliatory nod. Fisher continued, Experience has taught me that sometimes you have to let things play out for them to come to fruition. You’re pushing yourself beyond what’s humanly possible, Keats.
I want these bastards, sir.
A smirk at his strong language. Indeed. I want them as well— preferably before they blow up someone important.
Outside Fisher’s office, a pair of detectives strolled by, laughing at some joke. Turning back to business, the Chief Inspector asked, Any luck with your inquiries into the explosives firms?
I’ve heard back from all but two. I’ll press them today.
Are they local? Keats nodded. Go see them in person, Fisher ordered. Impress upon them that when Special Branch makes an inquiry, it is best they respond promptly.
As you wish, sir.
What has Doctor Montrose been up to?
Keats blinked, and then shook his head. How’d you know I’m still following him?
I suspected as much. You’ve put your good name on the line.
If it were I, I’d be watching him closely just in case I were wrong.
Keats nodded in resignation. Fisher was always one step ahead of him.
Alastair was wandering around alone after midnight last night.
Really? Fisher asked, leaning forward, always a sign his attention was captured. Did you have him under observation during the murders?
No. However, I rather rashly examined his person after the fact, and there was no evidence of blood. I also spoke with a constable… He paused, dug out his notebook and flipped a few pages. PC Rogers. He verified that Alastair was located on a bench overlooking the Thames at one in the morning when he went off-duty. The constable did not challenge him, as he appeared to be sober and well behaved.
I see. So he couldn’t have been involved in the first killing.
Fisher leaned back. What about the second?
A shrug. Alastair admits to being through Mitre Square last night on the way to treat a patient. I will find out who that was and question them…discreetly.
Does he know you’re a copper yet?
No. I’m not ready to tell him.
Good. Fisher selected a file and placed it in the center of his desk, signaling to Keats their discussion was nearing an end. See to those explosives firms. If there have been no thefts, write up your report and we’ll move on.
Keats opened his mouth to protest, but Fisher held up a hand.
We have no choice on this. Word from On High, he said, extending his right index figure toward the ceiling.
It’s a mistake, sir.
Fisher gave a knowing nod. Precisely.
Keats cocked his head. He knew that tone. Fisher gave him a conspiratorial wink and then shooed him away with a handwave.
Off you go, Sergeant.
Yes, sir.
As he left Scotland Yard, Keats had the definite impression that he and the Chief Inspector walked a fine line between duty and insubordination. One stumble and Fisher would be in line for a reprimand, making Keats’ future exceedingly murky.
I just to have to find Flaherty, he said. How difficult can that be?
The evening streets were visceral, packed with roaming citizens whose moods veered from fearful to combative. Some shouted their derision at the police, while others demanded that someone, anyone, be arrested and hung for the crimes. Finding a hansom proved impossible, so Cynda hiked until she reached Bell Lane and then headed north, shifting her bag back and forth as she went. As she traveled, she became privy to all the latest theories.
He could be a rozzer, for all we know, a costermonger remarked to a customer while he awaited payment for a used pair of boots.
A cop? Keats had said he’d been tracking Alastair the night before. Was he telling the truth?
Cynda shook her head. Soon, she’d be pinning the murders on Ralph in ’057. What was it about Jack that so captured the imagination, making everyone a potential villain?
She nudged her mind to lighter matters. Had Alastair found the envelope yet? She could imagine his face when he stared at the bank papers awarding him a sum of money just over two hundred pounds. TIC would probably quibble about her signing the money over to the doctor, but the way she saw it, it wasn’t theirs in the first place. During her last trip to 1789, TIC had ordered her to open the emergency funding account for Rover use and then stiffed her for it when she came back, debiting the sum from her paycheck. No deposit receipt, they’d said, no refund. No matter how much hell she’d raised, they wouldn’t reimburse the money.
Ergo, this two hundred pounds in 1888 was hers. Now it belonged to Alastair Montrose to do with as he chose.
He’ll make a difference, unlike TIC.
Cynda shifted the hefty Gladstone from one hand to another.
She’d had to leave the ruined dress behind, but managed to wedge the truncheon inside the bag, deeming it a souvenir. Chris’
remains and urn added another nine pounds to her load. The weight made her fingers ache; she couldn’t carry it for long on the right side, or her shoulder retaliated with bolts of fire into her chest. Hopefully, TIC wouldn’t notice the extra weight. Maybe they’d think she’d gone heavy on the toffee pudding.
May I help you with that? a familiar voice asked.
She looked up with a sigh of relief. Alastair was walking beside her. Rather than anger in his eyes, she saw purpose.
Yes, that would be great. Chris is heavier than I thought.
He took the bag from her and groaned. Good lord, he is.
They walked silently for a block before she had the nerve to broach the subject. I didn’t think I’d see you again.
I realized that I couldn’t just let you…disappear—not after what I said to you. I felt I should make amends.
No need. Some of what you said was right. I’ve been too…isolated. Last night cleared away a lot of the fog.
I was still wrong. You’re not a heartless person, and I apologize for saying you are.
Thank you. Still, what’s the point of what I do if I’m always a bystander? She shook her head. How is Davy’s mother?
Improved. I believe she will recover. She said you gave the boy money.
It took some doing. He didn’t want to accept it. She eyed him.
Have you been to your room yet?
No, not since this morning. Why?
She flashed a smile. I left a surprise for you. Consider it a gift.
Alastair suddenly grasped her elbow, drawing her out of the pedestrian flow. Setting the bag on the ground, he pulled her close and cleared his throat. Send your tourist wherever he needs to go and stay here with me.
Her mouth fell open. Alastair––
You said you’ve never felt at home, no matter where you are.
I think you could here. We could make a life…together.
Did he just…
She was shaking her head before she spoke. I can’t do that,
she said. Going native isn’t allowed.
I don’t have much to offer, but I swear you won’t have to work the streets to eat. He looked away for a moment, as if gathering his courage. When his eyes returned to her, they were lit with bright fire. I believe I am in love with you, Jacynda. I don’t want you to leave.
She drew in a long breath. This can’t be happening…again.
Before her mind could begin to contemplate what their life would be like, she shook her head again. I can’t stay, Alastair. I just can’t.
The doctor’s face lost its intensity. Is it Keats?
Jonathon? No, he’s…
Very keen on you.
Yes, I think he is. But not in the same way you are.
Apparently, you’d led him to believe I was pregnant. He felt honor-bound to do the right thing and asked me to marry him. Of course, I refused his offer.
The doctor blinked in frank surprise. Oh, dear, I am sorry. I shared my concerns with him and, well…I never would have thought him capable of such a gesture. He kissed her hands.
What prevents you from staying here?
His query hung in the air between them. She’d been asking herself the same thing, though she’d never dared speak it aloud.
There was little in ’057 to call her own: a good friend, a stuffed ferret and a remote family. But to stay here meant making a commitment, believing that in a few months, or years, she’d still find Alastair Montrose a decent man, still worthy of the sacrifice she’d have to make. What if admiration was the best she could give? What if she never grew to love him with the same passion he promised her? Would that be enough?
It was the decision every Victorian woman faced––love versus security.
I’m not a Victorian, she whispered, pulling her hands away.
Alastair stepped back. I see. He pulled something out of his pocket. I believe you will want this.
She took the paper-wrapped item, cautiously opening it. Inside was a photograph of Chris in his coffin, a classic Victorian memorial portrait. Closing her eyes to subvert the tears, she failed.
I know it was a bit forward of me to have it taken, he mumbled.
You are such a good man, Alastair.
Not good enough, it appears.
Before he could move away, she kissed him delicately on the lips and then caressed his jaw line.
I will never forget you, she said.
His jaw clenched, then released. Hefting the bag, Alastair averted his gaze. Come, we should hurry, or you will miss your appointment.
Over Alastair’s protests, Cynda went inside the Paul’s Head alone. Saying goodbye one more time was beyond her capability; crying in the midst of the smoky pub would be wrong.