Will there be a promotion for this coup? Alastair asked, entranced by Keats’ report of how he’d uncovered the explosives theft.
No promotion. It’s not a coup unless I catch them, Keats replied, currently en mirage as the plain girl Alastair had encountered after his visit to the Wescombs. Keats had caught up with him as he made his way toward the clinic and the task of vigorous bench construction. The cop offered to walk with him if they went the long way around, meandering through the back streets so Keats could perform his duties. They would appear a couple, and attract less notice that way, he’d said. Alastair had readily agreed, fascinated by this side of his friend’s life.
It’s amazing how you took that little scrap of information and nurtured it until it bore fruit. I am in awe, Alastair remarked.
Keats studied him for a moment, and then nodded at the compliment. It helps that things are going well in that regard. In other matters… His voice trailed off.
You miss her, don’t you? Alastair asked.
As do you, I suspect.
Yes, indeed. Alastair sighed heavily.
Keats mercifully changed the subject. We shall go a bit more east and then cut north so you can get to your own work. I want to see how the Angel and Crown is tonight.
The pub was full, as were the two just down the street. Alastair followed his friend inside and waited as Keats took inventory of the faces.
Any luck? he asked after they’d exited the last one.
No, was the solemn reply. Let’s cut through Green Dragon Place.
The narrow entrance eventually widened to reveal a street lined with rundown buildings.
I’ve never been here before, Alastair remarked.
Poor area, like most of Whitechapel. Quite a few Irish, though not as many as over in George Yard or on Wentworth.
You’ve really immersed yourself in this, haven’t you?
Keats regarded him with a wry grin. And your stack of medical books in your room is a mere diversion?
You have a point there.
A fully-laden wagon trundled toward them, stacked high with barrels. One of the rear wheels wobbled as a pair of sweaty horses strained in their traces to move the load. Besides the driver, there was another man up on top, his hat pulled low and a muffler slung around his neck. The load gave off the distinctive odor of rum. Two trouncers sat in the back of the dray, each armed with a truncheon. One of them leered at Keats, making kissing noises.
You’re a right plum one, girlie, he called. How ’bout you come and sit on my lap? he said, tapping his beefy thigh.
Before Keats could reply, a muffled voice cut through the air from the front of the wagon. Keep your mind on the job, not your knob, got it?
The man in the back scowled, but stopped making the noises.
Come on, let’s cross the street, Keats whispered. The rum’s giving me a headache.
Further on, they passed the chocolate factory. Alastair inhaled deeply. Before he thought, he said, Jacynda loved chocolate.
A look from his companion. Indeed.
Keats seemed preoccupied. Before Alastair could ask what was troubling him, he spouted, That wagon. Why are they on that street? There’s a stable at George Yard where they could have the wheel fixed. Wouldn’t it make sense to have taken the dray there in the first place?
Joking, Alastair retorted, It’s probably the missing load from Canary Wharf and they’re flogging the stolen rum to the pubs near there.
Maybe.
They walked on. How was your confrontation with the Powers That Be?
Alastair rewarded him with a full recitation of the encounter.
Keats let out a war whoop and slapped him on the back, actions totally at odds with his feminine illusion.
I am in awe of you, my friend. You didn’t merely take the fight to them, you redefined the war. Well done!
I imagine it will be a difficult post. Livingston is far too sharp, and Hastings detests me on an elemental level.
Excellent. It’ll keep all of you on your toes.
At least they’ll not plague me any further. I have plenty of other issues as it is. Alastair peered into the Frying Pan’s window. Busy night. Who knows, maybe your fellow is here.
Keats turned and stared back the way they’d come, like a bloodhound catching a scent.
What is going on in that mind of yours? Alastair asked.
The man on the front of the wagon next to the driver. Did you get a look at him?
No, he was covered up.
Those horses were bays, weren’t they?
Yes, but surely you’re not thinking that an Irish anarchist would be so bold as to drive a stolen wagonload of gunpowder into the middle of Whitechapel.
Keats raised an eyebrow. It seemed an odd gesture on a young girl’s face. The man knows no limits to his boldness. What better way to conceal the smell of explosives than under the scent of rum?
Alastair shrugged. The wagon’s the wrong color, my friend.
A pause and then, The paint, Keats murmured. The dray was green. Perfect for an Irishman.
Alastair rolled his eyes. I see this is going to plague you until it is solved. I’ll gladly accompany you. I’m in no hurry to build new benches. This is far more exciting.
Keats gave him a long look. It could be a lot more than exciting. This could end badly for both of us if Flaherty’s involved.
I owe you from the other night.
You may regret that debt, Keats remarked, linking arms with him. They walked back the way they’d come at a brisk pace.
As long as I hold my illusion, Flaherty will not recognize me.
That is our edge. If it is him, I will send you for a constable while I keep watch. They will have to unload the wagon to fix the wheel.
That buys us time.
And if we are mistaken?
Then we laugh and continue on our merry way.
The worn skirt and jacket, ratty shawl and smidgen of dirt on Cynda’s cheek dropped her street worth precipitously. Though the clothes were second-or third-hand, they were free of creatures, courtesy of the hotel maid. She’d scrubbed the garments clean with a cheerfulness in direct proportion to the liberal tip Cynda had pressed into her hand. Fortunately, the girl hadn’t asked why a lady would want such garments in the first place.
In fact, the clothes were too clean, and Cynda’s first task was to grubby them up a bit. Standing outside a beer shop on Commercial Street, she admitted the disguise was perfect. Five offers had already come her way, but no sign of Mimes. That was aggravating. Fortunately, she’d not seen either Alastair or Jonathon, though given the latter’s propensity to shift at whim, she could fall over him and not notice.
At the urging of a stocky constable, she moved on. Keen to avoid potential contact with the doctor, she skirted the Ten Bells and headed north to the Golden Heart and then to the Weaver’s Arms. No Mimes. He could do many things to alter his appearance, but disguising those eyes would prove difficult.
Unfortunately, to recognize him would require that she be within range of his blade.
Dragging her skirts and tired feet to the Black Swan yielded no results besides an offer from a Salvation Army lass to come to their shelter for the night.
You’ll find warmth and safety there, the girl insisted.
I know, luv, but that’s not what I need right now, Cynda replied, falling into the patter. The young girl shook her head and moved on.
While the other women chatted amongst themselves, trading stories of life on the streets, Cynda’s eyes wandered over the passersby. Just another night in Whitechapel. In the distance, she heard the clock at the Black Eagle Brewery chime the hour.
Nine…maybe she was too early to find her man.
The naphtha lights of a street market attracted her like a lonely moth. Customers rummaged through goods displayed on carts, haggling with the sellers. Most of it was used clothing, but one cart had boots, pots and hair combs. People pawed through the goods, holding them up for inspection.
After another hour, disgruntled and footsore, she rested on a doorstep while keeping an eye out for the constable who would inevitably roust her, just like a CopBot in ’057. The longer she spent with the prostitutes, the more she understood them. The drinking made sense now. If you were insensate, the rest of it wouldn’t seem so bad.
Where are you, you creep? she murmured, fumbling under her skirts to redo the lacing on her boots. You just couldn’t have vanished.
The vibration of the time interface made her jump. Looking around to ensure no one was watching, she turned toward the building and retrieved the mechanism. Once she reached a dark spot in an adjoining passageway, she popped the lid open. The dial lit up. After a few quick turns of the stem, a message appeared.
Go to Green Dragon Place now!
Why? Is he there?
As if Ralph knew what she’d asked aloud, the dial read: No.
Major Time Distortion in the offing. As if anticipating her next objection, the dial displayed a miniature map with a golden dot at the street’s location, south of her present position. Morrisey says ‘Go forth and mend!’
Great, now I’m a puppy on a short leash, she grumbled, hiding the watch in the onesie. Muttering under her breath, she set off toward Green Dragon Place.
Walking along the street that led to Green Dragon Place, Keats kept his eyes on the ground, as if searching for something. Cross the street, he whispered. As they made their way across, he knelt as if adjusting a stray bootlace, running a hand through a patch of black on the cobblestones. Rising again, he sniffed his fingers. A knowing smile bloomed.
What did you find? Alastair asked.
Keats tipped his head up in a coquettish move. Leaning near Alastair’s ear, he whispered, Fenian fairy dust.