Are you given to drink?
No. Why?
You claimed there was a spider in the room, the size of an omnibus.
Oh.
Have you been treated for mental instability?
No. You just startled me.
I see. Well, you appear to have recovered. If you need anything, ask Mildred. I’ve had quite enough of a day as it is. He rose, dropped the cloth into the basin with a noisy splash, and left the room.
Oh, dear, Cynda moaned. So much for being discreet.
Mildred looked chagrined. He’s usually very polite. I think he’s quite tired.
Makes two of us. Her brain jostled her. Ah, is there a Professor Turner staying here at present?
No, miss.
Has he been here recently?
Don’t know, miss. I’ve only been here since Thursday last.
You’d have to ask Annabelle about him.
I will. My…uncle…said I should say hello to him while I was here.
Mildred nodded. Do you need anything to eat, miss?
No, thank you. I just want to sleep.
I put all your things in the wardrobe. Oh, and I’d lock your door, you being alone and all. Our lodgers are good people, but you can never be too careful.
I’ll do it. Good night…Mildred.
Once the woman was out the door, Cynda slid her feet from under the covers and sat on the side of the bed, wiggling her toes to regain feeling. Her boots just weren’t right. Luckily, she’d not have to wear them very long. She stared at her underwear, if you could call it that. The onesie, a combination chemise and drawers, would have amused the folks in ’057. It lacked a crotch, more for ease of personal necessity than for anything remotely fun. Edged in lace, it did nothing for her figure.
As she stood, lightning erupted like her own personal fireworks show. Cynda bent over and clutched her stomach to keep from heaving. After a series of deep breaths, things seemed to stabilize.
With tentative steps, she made her way to the door, locked it with the skeleton key, and then headed to the wardrobe.
Her black and navy dresses hung neatly inside. Cynda hunted for the time interface. The pocket watch wasn’t where it should be––tucked under the ruffle in the false bodice panel of the black dress.
She checked the other dress. Nothing.
Cynda dug around the floor of the wardrobe, in case the watch had fallen out. Panic broke a sweat on her forehead as she pawed through her luggage. She found the watch wrapped inside a stocking and tucked into a boot. Mildred’s handiwork, no doubt.
Thank God. She kissed it like it was a religious icon. No interface, no way home. Not long ago, she’d have trusted TIC to retrieve her. That trust was growing as thin as Annabelle’s physique.
To celebrate her safe arrival, Cynda ate two pieces of chocolate without actually tasting them. Edging her way back to the bed, she tucked the watch under the pillow and then turned the bed covers back, checking for bugs. Thankfully, there were none; Annabelle kept a clean place by Victorian standards. That was the primary reason it was used as the ‘safe house’ for 1888. And the landlady wasn’t inclined to ask awkward questions. Cynda blew out the candle and snuggled under the covers. As she drifted to sleep, she wondered if spiders really did have tongues.
Though he’d tried to make himself as nondescript as possible at the Princess Alice, Jonathon Keats earned a few propositions he didn’t dare accept. After trading jokes with a saddler and sipping a pint of beer, he set off for the next pub.
He’d lied to Alastair and regretted it. He wasn’t looking for the Whitechapel killer, though if he fell over him he’d be happy to tote the fiend to the nearest police station. On the contrary. Detective-Sergeant Jonathon Keats was on the trail of bigger quarry: anarchists.
From the very first, Alastair had tagged him as an erratic fop.
Keats had to admit his performance was spot-on; his father had been an ideal role model in that regard. As Alastair had occasionally made remarks sympathetic to the Irish separatist cause, Keats had allowed the delusion to stand. At present, it was best that his friend not know he was a cop. Just when Keats would reveal his true vocation remained an issue. The longer the deception, the greater the damage would be when his friend finally learned the truth.
Not yet, he said under his breath. The doctor wasn’t the kind to plant bombs, but still, caution ruled. If the wrong person learned Keats worked for Special Branch and was nosing about Whitechapel, his next assignment might involve floating face down in the Thames after a misadventure.
From his location in front of the Ten Bells, he saw a man loitering near the entrance to Spitalfields Market. The fellow was a copper. Keats couldn’t determine precisely what betrayed the fellow: He just didn’t fit the street. Because of the murders, there were a lot of cops wandering around now, but any seasoned veteran of the East End could spot them with little difficulty.
Keats knew the streets intimately. Every few pubs he would shift forms, working through the three he preferred: the plain streetwalker, an Irish match girl and a sailor. Each had their own story, and it was dicey to keep them straight. He had to remember whom he’d talked to and in what form, lest they’d met at another pub. It was an immense challenge, and one Keats relished.
Making his rounds, he kept an eye out for one man in particular—Desmond Flaherty. Sometime in the last fortnight Flaherty had gone to ground. Keats was sure his absence meant something. The Fenians were growing restive. Of the lot, Flaherty was one of their most rabid, with a penchant toward explosions— the more spectacular, the better. If he hadn’t been in jail at the time, Flaherty most certainly would have been involved in the attempt to dynamite London Bridge in ’84, or the Houses of Parliament the following year. It was said in low whispers in smoky pubs that Flaherty wanted to make his own mark in just such a dramatic fashion.
Whatever the Fenian was planning would be big. Fortunately, Keats’ superior at Special Branch felt the same, and allowed him the liberty to scramble around the streets of Whitechapel at all hours in addition to his other duties. There was one liability: Chief Inspector Fisher was an Opaque with no knowledge of the Transitives. Keats walked a thin line between duty and discovery.
He hiked in troubled silence toward Dorset Street and The Britannia, currently en mirage as the sailor. The pub was chocka-block, but Flaherty wasn’t jostling elbows with the other drunks. Seven more pubs gave Keats sore feet and a dull headache, but no news as to the Fenian agitator’s whereabouts.
His usual contacts were as mystified as he was. To the person, they felt uneasy. That told Keats reams.
After shifting back to his usual form in a darkened side yard, he caught a hansom cab near Aldgate Station and instructed the driver to take him to his lodgings in Little Russell Street. As the cabbie headed west, Keats fought the urge to fall asleep. By the time he trudged up the stairs to his rooms on the second floor, it was nearing three in the morning. He tossed aside his bowler hat and coat. Despite the late hour, his landlady ensured that there was a bit of fire left for him when he returned. To foster her good humor, he always paid his rent on time and brought her flowers whenever the mood struck him.
With a bit more coal and the liberal use of the bellows, the fire reignited. Too tired to fill the kettle, he propped his feet on the ottoman and sighed into the comfort of his favorite chair. Opening a book, he read until the welcome warmth of the fire caused him to doze.
A knock on the door roused him. He squinted at the mantel clock—just after four.
Who the dickens is this? Keats propelled himself upright.
Reaching to throw the bolt, he hesitated. He dug in the brass umbrella stand and extracted a truncheon, hiding it behind his back.
Cautiously cracking the door, his eyes widened in surprise.
Keats? a voice inquired. Umm…pardon for the early hour.
Sir? Keats opened the door immediately. Come in!
Chief Inspector J.R. Fisher strode into the room and then abruptly halted, as if unsure of what to do next. Keats’ mind raged as he locked the door and replaced the truncheon in its hiding place.
What is wrong, sir?
In lieu of an answer, the Chief Inspector knelt and jabbed at the coals in the fireplace with the poker. As usual, he was dressed in a black suit, his brown hair, moustache and beard immaculate.
Faint strands of gray could be discerned at his temples, and it seemed to Keats the amount increased with each passing week.
Fisher’s eyes held a sharpness, though at present they seemed wary. He carried himself with more grace than most cops, or gentlemen, for that matter.