Cynda’s sigh caused waves to ripple across the bath water.
When she was a child, she’d play crocodile, hunkering down as far as she could until the water was right under her nose. She’d wait in that position until the little yellow duck would float by, and then surge out and drag the thing under, just like a croc. It was great fun, at least when she was a kid. Though in many ways it seemed silly now, there was a lesson to be learned; crocodiles patiently waited for their prey to come within range and then devoured them.
Mimes is no duck, she muttered, shaking her head. More like another croc.
Leaning back, she closed her eyes, savoring the heated luxury that enveloped her, the pure heaven of the hotel’s ceramic bathtub. Soaking reduced the ache in her feet and chest, something a Thera-Bed seemed unable to accomplish. The only negative was that the hotel maid had to haul the water up however many flights of stairs to fill the tub, bucketful by steaming bucketful. Cynda made sure to be generous with the tip.
The characteristic sound of an Outbound, a hollow whooshing noise followed by an equally hollow thud, reverberated throughout the room. Staring out into the small space that served as the bathing chamber, Cynda spied a figure wavering on its feet as a post-transfer glow dissipated around it. It was male, clad in period garb. Fortunately, her face was above water when her mouth fell open.
Morrisey? When he didn’t assume the post-transfer position, she snapped, On your knees. An experienced Rover automatically went into the pose, knowing that to remain upright increased the chance of cerebral degeneration. He still didn’t move. Do it now! Place the top of your head on the floor and stay there.
Morrisey nearly doubled over, his body quaking. With a low murmur, he clutched his stomach.
Deep breaths, that’s it, she advised, peering over the edge of the tub at the newcomer. His shaking lessened. A quick glance at the bath towel told her it was out of range. She had no choice but to stay put or flash her new boss.
Eventually he raised his head, staring at her with bloodshot eyeballs surrounded by unusually pale skin.
First time? A nod. She smirked. Outbound’s a piece of cake.
Wait until you go Inbound. That’s a real kick in the butt.
A disgruntled frown. He was getting better.
She pointed toward the door. Sitting room’s that way. Give me a moment to get dressed or you’ll know why I don’t need a corset.
She pointed again. He leveraged himself upright and staggered out the door, closing it in his wake.
By the time she’d donned enough clothes to pass for decent, Morrisey had made himself at home. His boots were off, feet crossed in a Lotus position on the couch, eyes closed in deep meditation with palms resting on his knees. Thank you for your assistance, he said, eyes fluttering open as she entered the room.
He’d recovered faster than any veteran Rover she knew. He got extra points for that.
What brings you to ’88? she asked.
We’ve concluded our research on the two Samuelsons.
You couldn’t have sent the information over the interface? she asked, curling up in a chair near the fire. Tugging her hair from the pins, she finger-combed it, a section at a time. Or were you just trying to catch me naked?
He ignored the jibe. I had no choice but to make the journey.
You left a rather significant detail out of your report, one that is not of common knowledge.
Which was? she hedged.
That the physician you encountered was Transitive.
She stopped mid-comb, dropping her hands into her lap. I wasn’t sure if you’d believe me. Since I’d not heard of them in ’057, I assumed that it was best to keep quiet.
Few are aware of their existence.
But you are, obviously.
He nodded guardedly. I am privy to their secret.
I…I just don’t understand how they do it. The Victorians have no idea of what’s involved, at least according to Alastair.
A particular cranial alteration allows Transitive behavior to flourish. The change is shared at death, though precisely how the recipient’s brain is altered is unknown. Studies have been conducted, but the vector eludes us still.
And when they shift, how does that work? she asked.
Going en mirage affects the neural synapses of those who view them, causing them to see whatever the Transitive chooses.
No magic? Cynda asked, disappointed.
Morrisey shook his head. None.
He stood, stretched, and then returned to his seat. She opened her mouth to ask the question, and then changed her mind. Some things were better left alone. So what is Mimes up to?
He’s methodically working toward a Major Time Disruption,
Morrisey replied with an incredible amount of nonchalance, given the subject matter. Once home, Mimes intends to reveal the Transitives’ existence, moving their discovery date considerably forward.
Considerably forward? The only way you’d know that is if someone’s traveled into the future.
Morrisey’s eyes held hers, but he didn’t reply.
I know, it’s highly illegal and all that, Cynda said. She leaned forward, intrigued. Was it Defoe?
Still no response.
Great, now you clam up. Okay, we’ll just say you’re clairvoyant and we’ll leave it at that, okay?
That suits me, was the terse reply.
A thought grabbed her. He isn’t one, is he?
Who?
Mimes?
No, he is not Transitive.
Whew. That helps. It was bad enough the guy liked to wear disguises. Hunting a shifter would be like taking on a tiger with a flyswatter. Leaning back, she bumped her head repeatedly against the padded chair like a bored child. It helped her think.
What does this nonsense buy Mimes, other than his fifteen minutes in the limelight and a lot of pissed-off shifters after his head?
It’s the second portion of his plan that is the payoff. Mimes will implicate an innocent man in the Whitechapel killings and then reveal that person’s identity to tout his new book.
A domino fell. The scapegoat’s a Transitive? A nod.
Which means that all Transitives are very scary people who creep up on you and cut your throat, PSI units or not.
Warming to the subject, she continued, Security will be revealed as impotent, the ultimate opiate for the masses. She snickered. Now I sound like my brother.
Morrisey didn’t reply, as if there were one more conclusion she needed to make.
A Transitive in ’88 will be crowned with the Ripper’s legacy, his name tainted forever, she said. Poor bastard. Probably some clueless schmuck who—
The brutal truth shot through her. Her eyes swept up to Morrisey’s. Alastair?
A brusque nod. It is our belief Mimes has collected evidence from each of the crimes and tied it to Dr. Montrose. Once back in ’057, he will ‘discover’ that evidence and unveil the Whitechapel killer. No doubt he has determined a way that will insure the revelation appears completely legitimate.
All of Alastair’s good work, his personal sacrifice, all lost. He will be remembered for the Ripper’s butchery, not his own humanity.
Precisely. And he will brand his kind in the process.
She studied her companion. What will happen to the shifters?
He stared into the fire and didn’t reply. An answer unto itself.
That bad, she murmured. Are you here to help me catch him?
No, I cannot stay. Was that regret she heard?
How did Mimes get here without TIC knowing?
He bribed an employee to skip the Outbound ESR scan. Our guess is that he removed his chip before the journey so there would be no record of his passage through time.
He’s a right devil, as they say here.
Yes, he is. Quite clever. One other thing—Mimes had an accomplice, his brother’s wife. They were having an affair. It was their plan to leave Walter in the asylum. Your excellent tracking skills no doubt saved the man’s life.
How’d you find that out?
Morrisey rose and pulled on his boots, balancing first on one foot and then other. I find people’s flaws and exploit them, Miss Lassiter. It is not a trait I enjoy, but often it works better than force.
He pried open his time interface, his hands betraying a faint tremor. He wound the watch stem, counting each turn under his breath.
Cynda rose. How do I stop a madman?
Still winding, he answered, Madness has its own momentum.
You must think like him, anticipate what he will do next. His eyes met hers. Catch this bastard, Miss Lassiter. Nothing is more important to me. Morrisey shimmered and then vanished in a whirl of light.
She blew a shot of air through pursed lips. Easier said than done, boss.
I assure you, sir, I have already given a statement to the police, the office manager protested. I have no desire to do it again. Keats kept his temper under control, a serious feat of engineering given he’d had only an hour’s worth of sleep. He pointed to the article in the Times, the reason he was not still in his bed.
It says your office was broken into but nothing taken. How can you be sure?
Because I know. Papers were strewn around, but they left the cash box intact.
Was it out in plain sight?
It was under a desk, but not hard to find if they looked, the man replied.
How about spare keys, those to the buildings in which you store your explosives?
The office manager dropped into his chair, shaking his head.
Those keys are not kept in a drawer, sir. They are on the person of our senior manager at all times. The fellow puffed up. I am a busy man, sir. Orders cannot be filled nor supplies obtained unless I complete the proper paperwork. Either you depart now, or I will file a complaint with your superior.
Keats tapped the folded newspaper on the edge of the desk.
Something wasn’t right, but no matter how hard he picked at it, nothing of substance appeared. I am sorry to have wasted your time, he replied.
The manager waved him off. Then good day to you. He buried his nose in a ledger, running his ink-stained digits along a column of figures, oblivious to the rest of the world.
In the outer office, Keats paused near a junior clerk’s desk. The young man looked up at him expectantly. May I help, sir? he asked, his accent placing him from the north.
When you need supplies, how do you order them?
Well, sir, we write out the order on our stationary. Mr.Trimble, the office manager, reviews it, stamps it ‘approved’, and we send it off.
That works for everything?
Yes, we follow the same procedure.
Explosives included?
Yes, sir.
Where is the stationary and the official stamp kept?
In Mr. Trimble’s office, the clerk said, pointing toward the room Keats had just left.
Are they secured in any way?
Oh no, sir. What would be the point? It’s just paper and a seal.
If I were to present one of these approved orders to a firm with which you’ve had a previous business relationship, would they accept it?
Of course, sir. We have excellent credit, the young fellow reported.
Have you any disputed orders at this point, ones that don’t seem proper?
The man thought, and then shook his head. No, sir.
Keats’ hope withered. He was so close; he could feel it. If you should discover such an order, please let me know immediately.
He handed over his card. Perhaps this was all just his imagination. Fisher was right; he was trying too hard.
Keats took his leave, dejected, hiking toward the main road in hopes of finding transport. He was stopped short by a shout. The young clerk ran up, his face flushed.
Sir, sir! I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I’m a junior clerk, I don’t handle the larger orders. Those are Senior Clerk Lowery’s responsibility.
He overheard us and mentioned it just as you left.
Mentioned what?
A disputed order, sir. A rather large one with an established client.
Involving explosives?
The man’s eyes widened. Yes, you are quite right. How did you know that?
Keats silently thanked Dame Fortune for her boon. Let’s have a look at the paperwork, young man. I suspect you have done the Crown an immense service today.
The clerk beamed and took off at a trot, eager to earn his place in history.
Keats barely acknowledged any of the greetings he received from his fellow detectives as he steamed toward Fisher’s office, his mind ablaze. He tapped on his superior’s door but didn’t wait for an answer as per custom, entering the room at a trot. He halted mid-step. Fisher wasn’t alone.
Oh, sorry, sir, I…
Sergeant? Fisher rose from his desk. What brings you to my office in such a state?
Keats glanced at Fisher’s visitor. It was Littlechild, the head of Special Branch. Who better to hear the news?
Keats shut the door behind him for privacy. He took a deep breath and launched into his startling declaration. At present, there are three wagonloads of explosives unaccounted for in the London area. Flaherty is in possession of them.
His superiors traded looks.
Littlechild took up the questioning, Your report stated that none of the manufacturers had experienced a theft, Sergeant. Now you indicate the opposite. How is this so?
The explosives weren’t stolen, sir—not in the usual sense.
They were taken by clever use of a false instrument.
Fisher gestured toward a chair. You look as if you could topple over.
Thank you, sir. It has been a long night. Keats sat and consulted his notes, flipping a couple of pages to refresh his memory. I noted an article in the paper about a blasting firm whose office had been ransacked. They claimed that nothing of value had been taken. I found that singular. I questioned their office manager about the burglary in detail.
Go on, Fisher urged.
I learned that they are in dispute with a gunpowder manufacturer who claims the blasting firm ordered and collected a load of explosives two days ago. However, the blasting firm insists the order is false. With some study of the matter, I realized that what had been taken from their office were sheets of their stationary stamped with the company seal, which are the equivalent of ready money to any of their suppliers. By presenting such a forged order, anyone may collect a load of explosives with few questions asked.
Good heavens, Littlechild said, shaking his head. This isn’t possibly a minor paperwork squabble, is it?
No, sir, it is not. I have spoken with both firms on the matter.
The order was forged.
That accounts for one wagonload, Fisher observed. What of the others?
Flaherty repeated the process with two other manufacturers, submitting orders and collecting goods.
You are sure it’s him? Fisher asked guardedly.
He matches the description of one of the teamsters.
Any notion of where they’ve gone to ground? Littlechild asked.
No, sir, Keats replied. However, it cannot be that far away, as he used the same team and wagon to pick up all three orders within a two-day span. It was as if the first one was a test, and once it worked, he sped up the process.
What did he get? Fisher asked.
Two wagonloads of gunpowder and one of dynamite.
Oh, lord. Littlechild groaned.
I took the liberty of notifying the other manufacturers of the scheme so that no more may be purchased, Keats reported.
Littlechild rose with a troubled expression. Well done, Sergeant.
Thank you, sir.
I’ll notify the proper folks. This will have to go all the way to the top, their superior added. It is not going to be met with shouts of joy, I can tell you.
I don’t envy you that, sir, Fisher remarked.
Comes with the rank and the pay, unfortunately.
Keats’ energy evaporated the second Littlechild left the room.
He leaned heavily into the chair, his eyes blinking in an effort to remain awake.
No sleep again? Fisher asked.
Little. The article kept plaguing me.
Write up a description of the drivers, wagon and team, and have it sent out.
Keats rose in slow motion. The yawn came, despite his effort to stifle it. Sorry, sir.
As he opened the door, Fisher called out to him. Keats?
He turned. Sir?
Extraordinary work, Sergeant. Now get some sleep.
Keats couldn’t stop the smile. Thank you, sir. Shuffling along the hall to find an empty desk to complete his paperwork, he kept the smile in place. It was a moment of personal triumph, and he knew it to be fleeting.