Chapter 34
Thursday, 4 October, 1888
Her determination to catch Mimes rose with each clip-clop of the horse’s hooves, overriding the need for sleep. Though Lord Wescomb had been so thoughtful as to hire a hackney to transport her to the hotel, once on the way, she diverted it into Whitechapel.
The jarvey thought her insane, and said so.
I know what I’m doing, she called up to him.
So did all those other women, miss, he insisted.
You might be right there.
In deference to history, she made her stand at the Ten Bells, now that Alastair and Keats knew her to be in London. It was alleged that a certain mass murderer drank at this pub. If Mimes was true to form, he’d come here to lay groundwork for the next killing.
She squinted across the street at the gas-lit clock on the steeple of Christ Church. Twelve-twenty. The pub would close shortly. A pair of sailors staggered outside, laughing raucously. The taller one addressed a working girl, and then nodded at his friend. She gave her own nod at his proposal and followed the pair down the street.
Cynda sighed. But for kismet, Kate Eddowes might be standing next to her, chatting about the weather or how she just needed a few more coins to get a bed at the doss house. Instead she was in the City mortuary, awaiting her funeral. By all accounts, it would be a grand affair. She’d be escorted to her grave by the City police while riding in an open glass hearse, her coffin of polished elm adorned with a golden plaque inscribed with her name.
Thousands of mourners would watch the funeral procession as she made the final journey to the City of London Cemetery in Ilford.
In death, Kate had made the leap from anonymous prostitute to a permanent footnote in history.
All because of one man’s bloodlust, Cynda whispered.
She turned her attention to the humanity swirling around her.
A young fellow, clearly from the better part of town by the quality of his clothes, was giving her the once-over. A knowing smile blossomed, as if the act of commerce he was about to suggest were a foregone conclusion.
She shook her head, even before he posed the question. He fished out four pence, rolling the coins in his palm enticingly. No, thank you, she said.
More coins. The amount was pathetic, barely enough to buy a couple loaves of stale bread. She ignored him, repulsed.
Look, woman, I’ll not go higher. His accent pegged him as upper crust.
Double it, and we have a deal. He frowned, and then produced the required coins. The moment he dropped them into her hand, she sailed past him and halted in front of a pinched-face girl further along the sad row. She looked all of sixteen.
Here, she said, offering the girl the money. The toff wants a knee-trembler.
I say, now… the fellow started, clearly vexed.
Cynda swung toward him and waved a finger under his nose.
Don’t start. She returned to her place amongst the streetwalkers.
A couple of them stared, as if she’d lost her mind. An older one gave a nod of approval.
As the couple walked by, the john sent her a sour look.
Make it worth her time, Cynda said. The expression turned venomous, but he didn’t stop to trade words.
A chortle. That was right nice of you, the older woman said.
Ellie needs money to feed her baby.
Glad I could help.
If you’re lookin’ to make a livin’, you can’t be handin’ off the punters, me girl.
Cynda studied her companion. She had a kindly face, like someone’s grandmother. Somebody’s grandmother who had to work the streets to eat. I’m not earning a living; I’m looking for someone.
Your old man?
No, but someone I need to find all the same. She spun out a description of the man in the alley.
No, haven’t seen him.
Sometimes he wears disguises. On a whim, she described Alastair.
The older woman nodded instantly. Oh, right, I’ve seen him about. He acts real odd, talkin’ to hisself all the time.
Does he come here every night?
Sometimes. He likes to chat with Marie.
Marie?
The older woman angled her head toward a ginger-haired figure near the pub’s entrance. She was in her mid-twenties, a red shawl wrapped tight against the cold. Unlike most of the woman, she wasn’t wearing a hat. He fancies her, but she says she won’t go with him. Says he’s not right in the head.
Cynda studied the girl. Could it be? Is Marie her real name?
Oh, no, luv. She just likes bein’ called that. Her name is Mary.
She puts on airs, you see.
Mary Jane Kelly. In a few weeks the woman would be dead, disassembled in a frenzied attack that would stun London and give historians the shivers centuries later.
The woman continued on, Mind you, I was surprised he was about at all. I heard he was in the klink.
Maybe Mimes was being too clever. If he built the doctor up as the perfect monster, someone would find out about him before ’057
and the author’s grand plan would go up in smoke. Screwing with history was a lot like fishing the nuts out of a jar of chunky peanut butter. It could be done, but it was really messy.
Have you seen him tonight? Cynda asked.
A nod. He picked up Rosie. I told her not to go with him, but she wouldn’t listen to me.
Cynda’s heart sank. How long ago?
Right before you came.
Where would she take him? she pushed.
Brick Lane. She likes one of the side yards down that way.
Nice and dark, so the rozzers don’t bother with it. She screwed up her face and asked, Why you want this fellow?
He’s been impersonating another man, a doctor who has a clinic just down the street, Cynda said, indicating the direction with a tilt of her head.
Oh, that’s not right.
No, it’s not. The doctor is a decent man. This other fellow’s been stirring up trouble for him. He needs to learn a lesson.
The woman scrutinized her. I’m thinkin’ you’d be the one to teach him, ducks. You got that look in your eye.
Cynda winked and slipped the woman a sovereign. Have a pint or two on me.
The woman studied the coin. No, I won’t waste it on drink. I’m off to get a bed. Waitin’ for Springheel Jack to cut me throat isn’t what’s good for me.
Cynda hurried along Church Street in the direction the woman had indicated, sticking to the shadows. Why had Mimes hired a girl? Was he doing research the old-fashioned way? He wouldn’t dare add another victim to Jack’s list just to tighten the frame around the doctor.
Madness has its own momentum.
The hell he wouldn’t, she said, breaking into a run.
Cynda hesitated at the entrance to the gated yard. Once she’d spied a couple leisurely walking along the street, she’d followed them for three blocks. Unfortunately, she’d never gotten close enough to know if she’d chosen the right pair. Why hadn’t she asked what this Rosie looked like?
A shiver overtook her as her eyes swept the streets. Nothing unusual: a costermonger and his cart, and a couple of Grenadier Guardsman.
Another shiver. She knew she was being watched.
After a deep breath, she pushed on the heavy wooden gate, praying it wouldn’t announce her presence. Once inside, she gingerly levered it closed.
In the murky twilight, she made out two shadowy figures near the brick wall of an adjoining house. A single, boarded-up window overlooked the yard. It was the ideal place to commit murder.
Cynda inched forward, one tenuous step after another. What if this wasn’t Mimes? What if he was playing Ripper with some other poor girl? Biting her lip, she edged nearer. The man’s hands rested on the girl’s shoulders. He asked a question and she shook her head, eyes glinting in the dim light. Did she realize she’d made a mistake, one that might cost her everything?
Your kind always says that, he replied, sliding his hands up until they took position on either side of her neck. She quaked at his touch, as if divining his intention. Adjusting her chin so her eyes were level with his, he said, I thank you for this. You will make us both famous.
It was Mimes’ voice, that nauseating mixture of mockery and arrogance. The girl shrank back, eyes darting around in increasing panic. She knew.
Cynda moved into the only patch of light. Fame is a fickle mistress, she announced.
Mimes whirled and stared, his concentration broken.
Time for you to go, Rosie, Cynda said. I’ll take it from here.
The girl took to her heels, too frightened to shout for help. The gate at the far end of the yard emitted a thump a few seconds after she passed through it. Mimes cursed.
Cynda took a few steps closer to study her prey. He was about Alastair’s height, and he’d adapted a similar look to the doctor’s, but it wasn’t exact if you knew the original. He didn’t resemble the photo on the back of his book, but then what author did?
There was little fear inside her, only scalding anger. This man had killed Chris. This man had tried to kill her. This bastard was trying to destroy Alastair Montrose.
As if on cue, a sadistic smile curved onto her quarry’s face. So, you’re alive.
Some of us are hard to kill. Though I have to admit, slinging me in front of the beer wagon was a bit dramatic.
A puzzled frown. Not my style. You must have more enemies than you realize.
Then who…?
Cynda pushed on, shelving the Shire incident away for later.
Was it you playing Professor Turner that night in the alley?
A nod. I’d intended to kill you before you got too nosey, but you didn’t come all the way into the alley.
Something stopped me, she said. Something with eight legs.
It’s time to go home, Mimes. This isn’t your personal playground.
He oozed closer. She fingered the neuro-blocker in her pocket, skittish, her side aching where he’d sheathed his knife the last time.
Ah, so now you know who I am.
Your brother was surprised to find out you’ve been screwing his wife and that you intended to orphan him in an asylum.
A wolfish smirk. Walter was always a bit slow on the uptake.
MaryBeth was the key. Without her, I wouldn’t have been able to convince him to make the trip.
Didn’t you think someone might miss him down the line?
Probably not.
You removed your ESR Chip before you went Outbound. Then you used Chris’ interface to find your brother’s chip. She pressed on. You removed it so we couldn’t find him.
His right eyelid twitched rhythmically. You’ve been doing your homework.
I have the time. Something you don’t.
I can go back whenever I want, Mimes said. The Rover was oh-so-helpful in setting the interface before I put him out of his misery.
While you’ve been here, TIC went bankrupt. You can trigger the watch all you want, and nothing will happen.
Mimes blinked in frank surprise, then frowned. The twitching eyelid grew more prominent. It appears I shall have to find another resource.
Why did you kill Chris?
The change of topic caught him offguard; he hesitated for a fraction of a second. I wanted his knowledge…and his interface.
I found he had a phobia for water. In the end, fear conquers all.
Why did you have to kill him if you got what you wanted?
Because I could.
No hint of remorse. The rules didn’t apply. Her left fist bunched as her right tightened on the neuro-blocker. Her mind conjured up Chris pleading for his life. It took all her control not to flip the blocker level to maximum and make this fiend beg for his next breath. It would be so easy to send him back as a corpse.
She doubted Morrisey would complain.
Her fingernails dug into her left palm. How did he die?
Why do you care?
How did he die? she demanded.
An overdose of chloral hydrate. I’m not a monster.
She resisted the bait, even as her stomach began a slow churn.
We intend to keep Doctor Montrose’s history unaltered. He will die with his reputation intact, no matter how hard you try to change it.
A noticeable jerk this time, followed by more twitching. She’d hit home. You do him a disservice. Like you, I’ve studied his life.
It is nothing, just a pathetic attempt to heal the ills of this cesspool, he said, waving his hand. All of us crave to leave something behind—something more than a trail of insignificant bread crumbs that is our miserable existence. With my help, Dr.
Montrose will achieve a legacy that will endure for centuries. I will grant him immortality.
Grant him? And make yourself rich in the process.
A laconic shrug. The price is negligible.
Not from his perspective.
He has little choice in the matter. Montrose is an ideal suspect—the perfect blank canvas upon which to paint my masterpiece. He’ll outshine all the Druitts, the Sickerts, the Klosowskis. He’ll be the one they remember.
Time to play with your head. We will ensure that the doctor has an ironclad alibi the night a certain Irish girl is killed in Miller’s Court. More twitching. She upped the ante with a lie.
We’re willing to falsify documents to show he was otherwise engaged during the times of the other murders. He’ll be another dead end, like so many.
Mimes glared. I’ve gathered too much evidence. The diary will—
Cynda launched a cunning smile. Thank you. Now I know what to look for after you’re gone.
He shook his head. London is a big place to play hide-andseek.
You forget, I have time on my side. I’ll keep hunting until I find it.
Who would spend that kind of money just to stop me? Mimes demanded.
T.E. Morrisey. You know, the software guy. He’s got a few bob, as they say, and he’s willing to spend every single one of them on you.
Why does he care? Mimes fumed.
The Rover you killed was his nephew…and my lover. Kiss that lucrative book contract goodbye.
He opened his coat, as if intending to pay a bill at a fine restaurant. Instead, he effortlessly drew forth a knife, angling it so the meager light played along the blade.
It’s precisely the kind he uses, Mimes announced.
Cynda began to withdraw the neuro-blocker from her pocket.
Put it down. We’re not going there again.
Before she could level her own weapon, he catapulted at her with hell-born fury, the knife slicing through the air. The blade whizzed by an ear, catching on her shawl. As she struggled to pull the neuro-blocker free from the pocket, Mimes slammed her to the ground, her head impacting the hard dirt. The blocker forgotten, she struggled for control of the knife as it quivered in the air above her. A burning cramp rippled through her chest. The knife descended perilously close.
This time…you die here, he hissed, eyes glowing in the night.
I won’t be denied.
A wave of solid black obscured her vision as Mimes cried out and fell away, the knife tumbling to the ground. Dazed, he scrabbled for it. As his fingers reached it, he flew backward as if physically struck.
They both regained their feet at the same moment. Digging inside his coat, Mimes produced another knife, a match to the one at her feet.
With a frantic tug, Cynda freed the neuro-blocker and fired into his chest. He continued to advance. She fumbled with the setting, readying another discharge. His last step faltered, and Mimes folded to the ground.
About time, she murmured. While she scooped up the closest blade, her quarry’s face contorted as he struggled to breathe.
Not easy, is it? she asked. Not as bad as having a hole in your lung. Pulling the second weapon out of his reach, she knelt next to him.
A square of white stuck out of his coat pocket, catching her notice. As she pulled it out, she dislodged a pair of glasses, which fell to the ground. Ignoring them for the moment, she squinted at the embroidery on the handkerchief.
ASM. It was one of Alastair’s.
But how… She snatched up the glasses, and it all fell into place.
Hix.
The strange man at the boarding house who shared a room on the second floor with her and Alastair. The man who always wore gloves and smoke-colored glasses. The fellow who had crept about at all hours.
You stole Alastair’s handkerchiefs so you could tie him to the crimes, she said. The madman’s eyes only glared harder.
A prickle of unease rippled across Cynda’s neck. Rising, she scanned the yard. A few feet away, a patch of uneven light wavered in the darkness. It solidified into a man dressed in Victorian garments, with top hat and full opera cape. His hands were gloved in gray, and one rested on an ornate cane. A distinguished gentleman, with a thin moustache and silver at the temples.
Rover? That didn’t feel right. Only one other option. A shifter.
She hid the neuro-blocker behind her skirt as she rose.
Good evening, Miss Lassiter, the new arrival said in a deep, smooth voice.
How do you know who I am?
He ignored the question and swung his eyes toward Mimes, who had somehow managed to stand.
Now what? She couldn’t use a twenty-first century weapon in this guy’s presence.
The stranger shook his head and tut-tutted. If I were you, I’d up the amount of neuro-blocker and give him a hit before this lunatic obtains another weapon.
She blinked in frank surprise. How did he know…
Mimes had indeed produced another knife: a short-bladed one with a hook on the end. The lunatic was a walking hardware store.
See? the dark observer remarked. He is of single mind.
Enough, Cynda replied. The beam shot through the night air and Mimes’ motions slowed, his hands dropping to his side, the spare knife careening into the debris at his feet.
Cynda eyed the stranger, keeping the blocker leveled.
He looked at the weapon and shook his head. That would be most unladylike. As I see it, you owe me twice over. I am the sole reason this fool didn’t kill you a few nights ago.
She puzzled on that. Something had jostled Mimes right before he’d tried to cut her throat. You did the same tonight, did you?
A patient nod. To whom do I address the thank-you note?
A rich laugh, accompanied by a theatrical flourish of his black cape, but no name.
How do you know about the blocker? she asked.
I am a man of many talents, Miss Lassiter, he said lightly.
Frowning, she gave Mimes a quick glance. He was laboring to breathe, the usual response to a second dose of blocker. One more hit, and he’d no longer have to worry about that. Tempting as it was, she returned the weapon to her pocket. Kneeling beside him again, she placed a time band on his flaccid wrist and tilted his head upward, staring into those disturbing eyes.
Where’s the diary? she asked him.
A lethargic shake of his head.
Where?
No, he croaked.
Cynda stood, winding the interface to prepare the transfer.
Glowering at the pathetic pile at her feet, she said, ‘Fear conquers all.’ You called the tune. I think I’ll put that theory to the test.
She set the time coordinates, mentally thanking her boss for the new interface. Her old one wouldn’t have allowed her this luxury. Mimes opened his mouth to protest as the holo-field generated around him. Bon voyage. The killer vanished into the transfer effect.
The stranger moved closer. She took a step backward.
You don’t trust me, he said. I am disappointed.
I don’t trust someone who hasn’t bothered to introduce himself.
Another rich laugh. Where did you send him?
To Italy, the Jewel of Campania.
The man furrowed a brow, and then smiled like a shark.
Pompeii? She nodded. How close to the eruption?
Cynda studied the watch. Ten minutes. I wanted him to savor the experience.
Another one of those rich laughs. Ah yes: the splintering roof tiles, the dogs’ unearthly howls, the incessant earthquakes. He gave a nod of approval.
Cynda stared. Only someone who had actually been there would know those minute details. Who the hell was this guy?
Unnerved, she checked the watch as it counted down each second. At the appointed moment, Mimes reappeared in front of them, his face covered in ash, two terrified eyes streaming tears.
His mouth opened and closed like a beached fish, clothes venting rotten eggs into the night air.
Ignoring the smell, she leaned close. Where’s the diary?
Another shake of his head. So be it, she said, setting the interface anew.
Where?
Spain, 1485. The Spanish Inquisition is just getting a good head of steam. I figured you might like to meet Grand Inquisitor Torquemada. Quite a fascinating fellow. You share a lot in common. Maybe you can trade torture tips, get a firsthand experience on what that’s like.
She took her time fiddling with the interface while the stranger watched in benign silence.
No… Mimes grunted.
Yes? she said, looking up.
A shake of the head. She initiated the transfer.
You surprise me, Miss Lassiter, her observer remarked. I would not think you capable of such cold-heartedness. She slid her gaze toward him but didn’t reply, remembering Chris’ funeral portrait.
Mimes returned, and this time his fear was tenfold. Whatever he’d seen courtesy of the Grand Inquisitor had eclipsed the hell fires of Pompeii.
My God. Banishing the pity, she demanded, Where’s the diary?
Key…pocket…New High…Street Bank…vault.
Cynda rummaged through his pockets, extracting the safedeposit box key. More digging unearthed the skeleton key to his room. In an inner pocket, she found Chris’ piece of turquoise. She kissed it for luck and tucked it away.
Something was noticeably absent. Where’s Chris’ watch?
Mimes tried to spit at her, but failed. Rot…in hell.
Not on a Rover’s itinerary. She rose. Is it in your room?
Mimes tried to spit at her again. Come on, tell me or I’ll send you back into Torquemada’s loving arms.
Bank… Mimes whispered.
Thank you. She triggered the watch and called a cheery, Bon voyage. Her quarry departed in a flash.
Home? the onlooker inquired.
Eventually. I thought he ought to do the Grand Tour first.
How grand?
He’s got six time periods, and all of them are heart-stoppers.
As unpleasant as Pompeii?
Every one of them.
He tucked the cane under his arm. I sense something beyond petty revenge. You’re generating crippling time lag.
Really? Cynda said, eyes wide and hand at her mouth, as if totally shocked. Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that. Gee, I wonder how that will affect his sanity hearing?
She started at the sound of gloved hands clapping. I am impressed, the stranger said. Very impressed.
Who the hell are you? she demanded. He shook his head.
Why not tell me? It’s clear you’re from… She waved a hand to indicate the future.
Because it is possible that you and I will not be on the same side when we meet again.
Same side? But you saved my life…twice.
A shrug. I’m that kind of guy. He executed a sweeping bow and turned on his heels, cape flowing like a black waterfall as he strode toward the far gate.
Only one response would do. Cynda dropped the interface into a pocket, raised her hands and applauded. Bravo! she called out.
There was a slight hesitation in his step, and then he swept out of the yard.
Cynda lowered her hands, tilting her head in thought. There are sides to this game? Morrisey didn’t mention that.
She tidied up the area, tying Mimes’ knife collection together with Alastair’s handkerchief. Attaching a one-way transfer disk to the makeshift parcel, it winked out of sight. She could imagine Ralph’s astonishment when it arrived in ’057. Dusting her hands, she gave a satisfied sigh.
She’d just started to open the gate toward the street when the pocket watch vibrated. Extricating it from under her petticoats, she leaned against the fence, out of sight of the road.
The dial lit up. Mimes here, worse for wear. TEM sends his thanks.
No problem. It was my pleasure, she said, snapping the watch shut. Humming to herself, she set off on a quest for a cab.
Hopefully the hotel maid would forgive her, but she just had to have another bath.
You’re sure she hasn’t left? Keats asked. You’re not sparing me the news just to keep me from flinging myself out of the window, are you?
No, Jacynda went to the hotel to rest, Alastair said, tying off the fresh bandage. It’d been this way since the moment his friend opened his eyes. Now stop fussing.
Which hotel? Keats demanded, not letting the subject drop.
A tap on the door saved Alastair from replying. A moment later, the maid entered and announced, Chief Inspector Fisher, sirs.
A low groan from the patient.
Chief Inspector, Alastair said as the familiar figure strode into the room.
Doctor. Ah, Sergeant, you are awake. How are you feeling?
Rather well, sir, considering.
Fisher shot the doctor a questioning look.
He is doing quite remarkably, Alastair reported.
A relieved sigh. I had my concerns. From what I heard at the scene, I had thought the injuries more serious.
I have an excellent physician, Keats replied. Sir, were you able to apprehend Flaherty?
Another sigh. Alas, no. He vanished into thin air, as is his style. Three of the men were Fenians; the others were hired to help with the load. We’ve learned little from any of them. They fear Flaherty too much.
Keats’ face fell. I’m sorry, sir. I thought there were only four of them. I have no notion where the other fellow came from. He proved my undoing. We lost Flaherty because of it.
Your undoing, as you call him, lived on Green Dragon Place.
Flaherty took the wagon there so the fellow could provide another set of eyes while they moved the load to the new dray, Fisher explained.
Ah…that’s why, Keats said. Still, I made a mess of it.
On the contrary, you’ve done splendidly. You secured a load of gunpowder and affected the arrest of known anarchists. Through your diligent investigation, you’ve denied Flaherty the resources to obtain further incendiary devices, and put a crimp in his plans.
That’s a fine bit of work, Sergeant, and I’ll give a good tonguelashing to anyone who says otherwise.
Keats stared in astonishment.
I told you, Alastair said. You just wouldn’t listen.