Chapter 27
Alastair maintained his illusion during the entire journey, fearful of what his stomach might produce from the shock of changing form. When they reached Bloomsbury, Fisher exited the carriage first, surveying the street as if expecting trouble. Keats helped Alastair out of the carriage, maintaining the charade while the two men on top peered down at them.
I still don’t know how you got the lady in there, sir, but it was right slick, the driver said, shaking his head.
Yes, well, we had a bit of luck with that, Fisher replied. We shall not need your services from this point on.
Right, sir. The driver traded a look with the constable at his side as the carriage rattled off, the sound reverberating in the empty street.
I’ll make us some tea, Keats offered, leading them toward the red brick building.
As he ascended the stairs to the second floor, Alastair was keenly aware of Fisher’s devout scrutiny, every movement captured and analyzed. As he waited for Keats to unlock the door, Alastair realized he’d never been inside the man’s lodgings. That didn’t speak well of their supposed friendship.
The door swung open. After a few moments, the gas lamps revealed a compact, yet tidy room. It offered a nicely appointed couch, two chairs and a bookcase filled to the brim. No stray bits of women’s clothing or a deck of cards to be seen. Keats’ deception had been masterful.
Their host gestured for them to take a seat. Fisher deposited his coat and hat at the door. Alastair sank into the nearest chair, his head swimming. How do the others go about en mirage for hours at a time? It is so draining.
Kneeling in front of the fireplace, Keats plucked coal from the scuttle and vigorously applied the bellows. Once the fire took shape, he rushed off into another room and returned with a teakettle. Placing it on the hook over the fire, he dusted his hands and then looked at his two guests with open anxiety.
Knowing he could wait no longer, Alastair leaned back, closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The transition came in roaring waves, like molten lava boiling over his skin. Gasping aloud at the discomfort, he bent over, elbows on knees, breathing deeply to quench the nausea.
Keats knelt next to him, offering a wetted cloth. Alastair stared at it. One moment, the fellow was savaging him with questions— the next, treating him like a long-lost relative.
So confusing. He reluctantly took the cloth and applied it to his face, savoring the cool dampness.
I’ll have tea pretty soon, Keats announced.
Alastair was vaguely aware of their host twittering around for a few more minutes. Keats finally settled into a chair near the fire, apprehension pouring off him.
As expected, Fisher opened the conversation. I am quite impressed, doctor. I would have sworn I was sitting across from an attractive young woman in that carriage. He leaned forward, rife with curiosity. Was that Miss Lassiter?
Alastair nodded. After a look toward Keats, he added, Apparently, you are aware of the nature of this…transformation.
I have learned of it only recently, and not in complete detail.
A sidelong glance at Keats.
If I could have escaped in any other manner, I would have done so.
Sir, I—
The teakettle shrilled over Keats’ interjection. He rose and poured the boiling liquid into the pot, his hands shaking noticeably. Though his friend had stood firm in the face of a ravening mob, the sergeant’s panic was rising with every passing minute.
Fisher doesn’t know he’s a shifter. Alastair returned his attention to the senior cop. I can hardly deny what you saw, so put your questions to me as you wish. I will endeavor to answer them as honestly as possible.
How do you refer to yourself?
We are called Transitives.
I see. How does one become such as you?
Alastair explained the process with as little detail as possible.
There was no guarantee this conversation would not come back to haunt him.
Keats offered his superior a cup of tea. Not wishing to be distracted, Fisher snatched it out of the sergeant’s hand and set it on a small table next to him with a loud rattle. Keats retreated to his place next to the fire, his fidgeting accelerated.
You sound disquieted about this…talent, Fisher remarked.
Why?
I do not believe it is honorable, Alastair replied.
Fisher stared into the fire, brows furrowed. You call yourselves ‘Transitives’. How remarkable. Are you able to tell if one of your kind is…en mirage? he asked, repeating the new words carefully.
To some extent, Alastair admitted.
Are you able to tell when Keats is in that state?
Their host’s mouth fell open, and then quickly closed. His eyes darted from his boss to Alastair’s in frank dismay.
There it is. No reason to deny it. Yes, I can. He seems easier to discern, unlike some of the others.
Sir—
Fisher gestured for silence. Not yet, Sergeant. I’ll get to you presently. Keats’ expression clouded.
The chief inspector took a sip of the tea. He set the cup down, pensive. If one of your kind is able to shift into any form he wishes, our task as keepers of the peace becomes nearly impossible. How can we be assured a physical description is accurate? How would one know that a man is who he claims to be, or even a man for that matter?
You can’t, Alastair replied. Though the illusion isn’t perfect, the viewer’s mind fills in the details. He set his own cup aside.
From your calm reaction, I must assume you’ve seen one of us en mirage before.
I have. A frown toward Keats. My subordinate and I spoke on this very matter a few days ago, though he deigned not to reveal many details.
Keats jumped in. I believe that the Chief Inspector encountered an Unstable, a man burning with fever. He shifted repeatedly, and then died. Before Alastair could pose the question, he received a quick shake of the head. No, he didn’t touch the fellow.
Thank God, Alastair whispered.
That raised Fisher’s eyebrow. Might I have received this ability even if I did not want it?
Yes, Alastair responded, though it is forbidden to transfer the ability without someone’s consent. However, if the man was desperately ill, he might not have known what he was about.
I see. More judicious thought. Every society has a governing body. What is yours?
Keats groaned aloud. In for a penny…
You know them better than I do, Alastair replied tartly. I haven’t had a good history with them.
While Alastair sipped the tea to settle his nerves, Keats patiently explained the nature of The Conclave and the power they wielded, real or imagined. Upon Fisher’s urging, he described Alastair’s encounters with their superiors, and how their relationship had progressed from bullying to open rancor.
They’re worried one of ours might be the East End murderer, Keats explained.
A valid concern, Fisher murmured. Everyone has fears the killer might be one of their own: the Jews, the Irish, the medicos.
We all want to believe it’s someone else, Alastair said.
A sage nod from Fisher. How many Transitives are there in London?
Keats answered, Probably no more than seven hundred.
Alastair caught Keats’ eye. He’d not been entirely truthful: he’d failed to mention the Solitaries, those who remained aloof and refused to accept The Conclave’s jurisdiction. Exactly how many of them resided in London was a mystery.
The senior cop rubbed his chin with his thumb for a time.
The room was noticeably warmer now. Alastair rose, removing his tattered jacket and standing in front of the window. Dawn would be along in an hour or so. The night had eluded him.
Is the missing woman one of your kind? Fisher asked, coming full circle.
No, Alastair said, swinging around. She is not.
A low, annoyed sigh. You still have not told me exactly what happened in that alley. Either of you.
Keats doesn’t know, Alastair retorted. By the time he found me, Jacynda was gone.
Gone where? Fisher demanded, rising to his feet. Good God, man, it’s a simple question.
Which does not have a simple answer, Alastair replied.
One moment, she was there, the next… He waved a hand to indicate nothingness. If you wish to book me for murder, then do so. However, it will be deuced difficult to convict me without a body.
The sigh came from Keats this time. He has a point, Chief Inspector.
Fisher dropped into his chair. Indeed. I just want to know what happened. In the end, Dr. Montrose, our careers are on the line when we put forward the case that you are not a butchering madman.
I am not, so you are on safe ground with that assertion.
Alastair turned back to the window. Below, a hansom disgorged a constable. The fellow peered at a note in his hand, and then up at the building.
Someone is looking for you, Chief Inspector, Alastair said.
There’s a bobby downstairs.
Apparently, the teamster reported where we went to ground,
Fisher remarked, shaking his head.
Keats rose. I’ll see what the fellow wants. He hurried out the door and descended the stairs at a rapid clip.
Alastair turned toward the chief inspector. Why didn’t you leave me at Bishopsgate to let the mob sort it out?
Keats asked me to intervene.
Do you usually cater to the whims of your sergeant?
A wry smile. Not usually; Keats is a different breed. I always wondered how he knew so much of what went on in Whitechapel.
I’d attributed it to a wide net of informants, but now it appears he has a talent other cops would envy.
Alastair mirrored the smile. You’re not the only one with the wrong impression; I thought him a womanizer, a degenerate gambler. I owe him much—my life included, it appears.
The man is quite remarkable, Fisher said.
The topic of conversation returned, a bit winded, and handed off a sealed envelope to Fisher. As the Chief Inspector ripped it open, Keats took his post by the fire. He had a resigned look on his face.
After scanning the note, Fisher’s face turned indignant.
He waved the paper. This improbable farce continues. The missing woman arrived at the Bishopsgate Police Station just after we departed. She gave a lively account of what occurred in the alley. She states that you, doctor, came to her rescue, fending off an assailant and therefore saving her life. When you went to summon aid for her injuries, minor ones apparently, she staggered off in a dazed state. She remembers entering a courtyard and swooning. When she came to her senses, she learned of your arrest and hurried to the police station to put things right. As far as our comrades at Bishopsgate are concerned, the matter is closed, as she is unable to provide a description of her attacker. Fisher raised his eyes. You’re off the scaffold, doctor.
Thank God, Alastair murmured. Was it Jacynda? If so, why had she returned? Had she changed her mind?
Where is she now? Keats asked.
It does not say. The chief inspector stood, tucking the note into his jacket pocket. I dislike coincidence, gentlemen, and this timely resurrection reeks of it. It reads too much like a Penny Dreadful to be believed. Given what I know of your abilities, that woman at Bishopsgate could be anyone. He strode to the door and secured his coat. Good morning to you, Doctor. I don’t doubt we will be meeting again in the near future. His eyes moved to Keats. Sergeant, if I may speak to you privately.
Keats trailed behind his superior like a man who sees his future turning to dust.