Ready? Jacynda asked, eyeing him intently from the couch.
Would he ever be ready? That he doubted. How does one confront something so unimaginable, so heinous? Yes, he said in a hoarse whisper. He scooted his chair closer to her.
Adjusting her gloves, Jacynda carefully opened the book, setting it on her lap. She flipped to the first page, then the next.
His handwriting danced across the paper, sometimes even and at other times cramped, as if he were agitated.
He’s fabricated your personal diary, she reported. ‘Monday, the 24th of September, 1888. A full day of labor at the hospital and the clinic. Too many to treat properly. One little girl will always remain in my memory, her life waning even as I attempted to aid her. In the evening, I saw to my landlady, who has twisted her ankle. It will heal without complication.’
Alastair paled. My God, I wrote that. He must have copied it from my own diary. He worked through the idea. I always felt someone had been in my room, but dismissed it as…well…nonsense.
Jacynda shook her head in amazement. This guy is good.
But that makes no sense. What if both diaries had been found sometime in the future? Would that not have mitigated his scheme? Alastair queried.
I bet your real diary would have gone missing when Mimes went home. You’d have no idea where it went—just like your handkerchiefs. She flipped a few more pages. You clever son of a…
Pardon? Alastair asked, frowning.
Oblivious to his displeasure, she pointed a thin finger at an entry. When there’s a killing, he attaches a piece of evidence on the page opposite to the corresponding diary entry. Somehow, he’s gotten close enough to the victims to remove something that would prove you had contact with them. She flipped back a few pages, tracking entries. Mary Ann Nichols—he has a lock of her graying hair. A few pages forward. Annie Chapman—one of her rings, she said, indicating a brass circlet on the corresponding page. She turned to the entry dated 30th September. He stared at a small, green piece of fabric decorated with lilies and Michaelmas daisies.
You might remember that from Kate Eddowes, she said in a hushed voice. It’s a piece of her skirt.
Alastair wiped a hand across his mouth. He’s like a buzzard circling in the killer’s wake.
Most likely he got the evidence before they died. It really doesn’t matter, as long as it matches the police reports.
What of the Stride murder? Surely he didn’t miss that one.
Cynda turned a page and shook her head. A half-beat pause, and then a long exhalation. Of course. Not everyone considers Stride one of Jack’s victims. Apparently, Mimes thought the same, and didn’t bother to gather any evidence to implicate you in the murder. Which means he wasn’t the man in the passageway.
Alastair rocked back in his seat. Implicate me…
She watched him wrestle with his limitless anger. A stranger had ever so carefully framed him, seeking to destroy the good he’d hoped to accomplish in his life. A century and a half later, the name Montrose wouldn’t be known for the care of the unfortunate.
Rather, the surname would be sullied for eternity with the blood of the unfortunates of Whitechapel.
Read me one of the entries that corresponds to a murder, he ordered.
I don’t think—
Read it to me! I have to understand this man. Their eyes locked. Do it, he commanded.
Cynda began at the top of the next page, the entry for Kate Eddowes. ‘Sunday, 30 September, 1888. Eternal riddles. One sliced, the other assayed. Centuries hence, they shall puzzle on my night’s work. Frustration abounds. My quest bears no fruit. Can it be so deeply hidden, or am I blind to it? Still, such was the joy I felt as her life ebbed under my fingers. Kings and gods have less power than I. I have usurped Death. I choose whether to save life or extinguish it. Will the Grim Reaper be angered that I have claimed some of his own? I think not. No doubt he grows weary of his work, so far behind that he is.’ She halted, praying that would be enough to satisfy him.
Go on.
Alastair, I don’t think you—
Go on! he shouted. I have to hear this, don’t you understand?
I can’t put it to rest until I do.
Cynda sighed. Exactly as it’s written? she hedged, staring at the next paragraph. This wasn’t something he should hear.
Exactly.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Scalding heat rises from the body into the chill night air. I scent the blood, the offal, it arouses me. I pull myself to the fore, anointing my loins with their sacred essence, savoring the feel. I am more than a mere god. I have become the Eternal Judge.’
A cry jarred her from the words. Alastair’s chair toppled to the carpet as he flung himself away. Retching with dry heaves, he clung white-fingered to the washbasin, his head bent over in agony. Cynda closed the book and set it aside. Where Mimes’
writing had disturbed her, to Alastair it was poison. As he attempted to purge it from his system, the difference between their two centuries couldn’t be more stark. 2057 deplored such madmen. 1888 could not begin to fathom them.
Innocence lost is never regained.
Water plunged into the basin from the pitcher.
Are you all right? she asked. A quick nod, followed by vigorous washing. Perhaps it was his way of cleansing away the blasphemous prose.
She opened the book again, searching for the last entry. Mimes had already begun his work for Mary Kelly. After only a few words, she slammed the book shut, her stomach churning.
What a sick bastard…
To calm her mind, she popped open the time interface and logged on. Ralph answered instantly.
Hi Cyn. Did you get the stuff?
Yes, but no interface.
Uh-oh.
Have Mimes tell you where it is.
Understood. TEM says to send the evidence here. He’ll see that Mimes is prosecuted.
When she looked up, Alastair was righting the chair, his face ashen.
Will do, she typed. The diary entries will prove he’s insane. Or one helluva of a writer.
Alastair studied the screen suspended in the air. Far from fascination, it caused a furious frown. Absolutely not, he said. I shall not permit you to send that venomous tome into the future.
Hold on. We have a problem here, she typed.
I cannot hazard such a chance. If I am blessed with children, then I would cause their progeny countless harm, Alastair explained.
Cynda typed the doctor’s objection.
TEM gives his word that the diary will be returned to ’88 for destruction.
Alastair read the reply. Do you trust this TEM person? he asked in a dubious tone.
She thought on that. Morrisey was the one who brought me home when I was wounded. He didn’t have to. He could have let me die here.
The doctor’s eyes widened. Why does he care about this?
She told him. His anger melted. I see. His loss is greater than even I can imagine. The doctor sought refuge at the fireplace, resting against the mantel as if he needed the physical support.
Cyn? the interface typed.
Hold on. Decision being made.
Alastair turned toward her. Send the diary where it needs to go. I hold you responsible. He turned away abruptly.
Exhaling, Cynda typed, Doc agrees. We both hold TEM at his word.
Understood, Miss Lassiter. That had to be Morrisey.
A minute later, the knife case and the diary took the onehundred and sixty-nine year journey into the future. Alastair returned to his seat and stared at the holographic screen.
Items received, Cyn. Holy crap…you were right about this stuff.
Make sure he’s out of circulation. Next time, I leave him in Pompeii.
Understood.
Log Off.
How soon will we know? Alastair asked, rubbing his hands together as if trying to warm himself.
Well, they have the time advantage on us, but still—
The flash of light blinded both of them as an object appeared on the carpet. Alastair immediately rose to retrieve it.
Hold on, give it a moment to stabilize. Once it stops glowing, you can pick it up.
He slapped a hand against his thigh impatiently until she gave a nod, and then snatched the cloth-wrapped parcel off the floor.
Extracting the book, he studied a page as if to reassure himself that it was the genuine item. Stepping to the fireplace, he asked,
Care to join me as I consign my alter ego to the fire?
I’ll get the marshmallows, she said, rising.
The what?
Never mind.
He dropped the wrapping fabric into the flames, fanned open the book and began ripping pages one by one, consigning them to the blaze. His shoulders seem to rise with every sheet, a weight exorcized.
Cynda caught his hand at the last moment. She pulled the square of green fabric off the paper before he slung it into the flames.
I want to keep a bit of Kate with me, she whispered. That way, I’ll never forget.
His eyes softened. Leaning over, he placed a kiss on her cheek, and then returned to his task with single-minded determination.
Cynda sank further into the tub, her hair tendriling into waves where it had escaped the loose bun. A sense of supreme satisfaction filled her. Despite her concerns, Alastair had buoyed once the diary was reduced to cinders. He’d kissed her tenderly and thanked her for saving his reputation.
Isn’t it usually the other way around? she joked.
Don’t make light of what you’ve done. It means the world to me, he said, kissing her again.
Once he’d departed, she’d checked in with Ralph. The news was mixed: Sending Mimes on his Grand Tour had backfired in an unintended way. As she predicted, the time lag had scrambled his brain. It also made it nearly impossible to determine where he’d hidden Chris’ time interface. According to Ralph, lots of people weren’t amused, her new boss included.
I shouldn’t have underestimated the creep.
On the plus side, Mimes would remain under lock and key until he turned to dust. It seemed fitting. The crazy’s scheme to implicate Alastair was the talk of the town. When the publishers’ complicity in the matter came to light, the company’s stock took a steep dive. One of the publishers committed suicide. Fiddling with history came with a hefty price tag.
The Transitives’ secret remained hidden. Apparently, Morrisey had buried that part of Mimes’ plan. Given the murderer’s diminished mental state, no one would believe him anyway.
Walter Samuelson had filed for divorce, citing his wife’s infidelity and the lovers’ plan to maroon him in a nineteenth-century asylum. In a final stab at his deceitful sibling, Walter signed a multi-million-dollar contract to pen a tell-all book about his experience. It was already predicted to be a chart-topper.
Hell hath no fury like a wimp scorned, she murmured.
Oddly enough, no comment had been made about her use of the Dinky Doc on Sergeant Keats, and no time-mending guidelines had been forthcoming.
Not fair. How can I break the rules when I don’t know what they are?
Cynda found the brown valise she’d used to send Mimes’ evidence to ’057 waiting for her in the sitting room. The tag stated: To Miss Jacynda Lassiter from R. Hamilton, Esq.
You nut, she chuckled. She toted it to the bed, plopping herself and the case on top of the feather mattress. Opening the strap, she peered inside the dark interior. The first find was a book entitled Etiquette for Young Ladies dated 1887. Ralph’s idea of a joke. She thumbed through and found a section on how to refuse a proposal of marriage. ‘I have the greatest esteem and regard for you, but I cannot feel the affection which a wife should possess for her husband towards yourself.’
I might need that for future reference.
The next find was a top hat. It was perfect in every detail, though designed for a very tiny head. Stuck inside the hat was a drawing of a pocket watch and the words: Find me!
Cynda rolled her eyes. Real subtle, Ralph. Digging into the bottom of the valise, she discovered a miniature cane. Then her fingers touched something soft—something she knew like her own skin.
Ferret Fred was clad in a black morning coat, gray vest, apricot ascot and black trousers, a tiny pair of gray gloves tucked just inside his coat. She popped the top hat on, laughing at the improbable sight of a stuffed Victorian Mustela Nigripes. A piece of paper stuck out of his vest pocket. Unfolding it, she read the message. Figured you might need some help.
She tucked the ferret under her chin and cradled him close, knocking the hat off in the process.
A blue blur shambled across the bed.
Fred, meet Mr. Spider. As usual, Fred didn’t reply.
Taciturn fellow, isn’t he? the spider observed.
Very.
The arachnid donned the top hat. It was entirely too large.
What does it say about a woman who talks to an imaginary spider and a stuffed ferret? Cynda mused.
Friends are where you find them, stuffed or otherwise, the spider replied. He twirled the top hat and put it back on. Quite outsized, he said, removing it.
After a wave in her direction, he wandered off the side of the bed. She swore he was whistling Rule Britannia.
Lady Sephora met her at the door, as if she were an honored guest. Her blue-gray gown accented her silver hair. Cynda guessed her to be in her late fifties, early sixties, that time of life when beauty came from within. Miss Lassiter. I was hoping you’d return.
Good afternoon to you, Lady Wescomb. How is our patient?
Quite well. Constitution of a horse, it appears. If he remains much longer, we shall have to sell our property in Kent to pay his feed bill.
Cynda chortled. Is Alastair here?
A nod. They’re playing chess, of all things.
Ah, good. Keep them occupied. I brought them the paper. I thought they’d want to read of their escapades.
Most certainly. Lady Sephora did a visual sweep of Cynda’s clothing. That dress suits you much better than your disguise ever did.
Disguise? Thank you.
Keats told me how you helped them capture the anarchists last night. Quite a brave thing to do.
Or a rather stupid one, depending on how you view it.
I’ve always believed that women are as brave as any man.
They are just blissfully ignorant of the fact. An awkward pause.
If I may be so bold, I would like to invite you to a discussion. It is for ladies only, and should be quite lively.
Lively? Probably how to make treacle tarts and blood sausage.
I’m not particularly good with social banter, Lady Wescomb.
The matron shook her head. Oh, none of that. We intend to discuss how to obtain our emancipation. It’s past time women had the vote.
Vote?
Cynda’s silence was met by a look of mortal chagrin. Ah, I must apologize. I had thought you to be of a more…modern mind, and if I’ve offended—
Why not go? It might be entertaining. Oh, I am quite modern, Lady Wescomb. More than you can imagine. I would love to go to a suffragette meeting. I can think of a number of reasons why women should be allowed to vote. Open door, sling fox into henhouse.
The lady’s face brightened. Wonderful. We shall dine before the meeting. I know an excellent restaurant that I’m sure you’ll enjoy. Alastair says you have a very healthy appetite.
It dawned on Cynda that all of this was genuine; the woman sincerely wanted to spend time with her. I would be honored, Lady Wescomb.
Sephora, please.
Jacynda. Then to Cynda’s complete surprise, the woman embraced her.
I am so pleased. I grow weary of talking about crinolines and the price of apples and how hard it is to find quality silk. Good heavens, there is more to life than all that! Your adventures last night told me you were a kindred spirit.
Cynda didn’t know what to say. Lady Sephora didn’t seem to notice. When you’ve finished with the fellows, she continued, I’ll be in my study. We can plan our excursion from there. Another hug, and then she swept down the hall in a rustle of skirts.
A force of nature, Cynda whispered, mounting the stairs.
Pausing outside of the sick room, she heard Alastair’s voice and then Keats’. They were jesting with each other. It sounded wonderful.
She knocked and pushed the door open. Keats’ face exploded into a smile the moment he saw her. Pointing to the chessboard, he crowed, Excellent timing! I am just about to take Alastair’s queen. He waggled an eyebrow mischievously. It gave him an exotic look what with the large bandage on his head.
Oh no, you’re not! Alastair said, studying the pieces. He moved one. Check.
What? Keats demanded, glaring at the board, his exultant glow fading.
You were too busy boasting and not paying attention to the game, old man. The queen is mine in the next move, Alastair retorted, and then gave Cynda a smug smile.
I can’t believe this. They’re acting like teenagers.
Queens are notoriously slippery, she advised.
Speaking of slippery, I do have a few questions, Jacynda, none of which Alastair seems willing to answer. Could you explain why you appear quite healthy, though the doctor claimed you were viciously attacked?
He…ah…overreacted?
On the contrary, I saw a great deal of blood in the alley.
I heal quickly.
Keats shook his head. What about your assailant? Is he not still a danger? Shouldn’t you be in New York with your family?
No, the evil-doer is gone.
A growing frown. Don’t put me off. You owe me the truth. I was the sailor on Dorset Street that night who saved your skin.
You? she asked, astonished.
A proud nod.
Well, then… Cynda gave Alastair a look and surreptitious wink before returning her gaze to Keats. You asked for it. All right, if you insist. I am a time traveler from the future. When I got hurt, I went back home to 2057, where they fixed me up.
That’s why you couldn’t find me.
Keats blinked a few times. You’re having me on.
No. I’m absolutely serious. I travel through time just as easily as taking the train to Oxford. Well, not quite; the train is worse.
Nonsense.
Every word of it is God’s truth, Keats, Alastair added.
Keats’ brows furrowed. Oh, right. Now both of you are playing silly buggers with me.
Jonathon, Cynda replied, I’m not lying.
Go on, pull the other one, it’s got bells on, he muttered. Well, I guess I shall just have to come up with my own outrageous explanation, though it’ll take some work to top that one.
Good idea, Cynda replied. It’ll make more sense than anything I can tell you. She dropped the newspaper on the bed next to Keats’ knee to distract him. Top of page 5. Both of you gentlemen are being lauded as heroes. Fortunately, my name wasn’t mentioned.
Alastair gave a knowing nod. He opened the paper and read the article aloud.
‘Despite grave danger to his person, Detective-sergeant Jonathon Keats, Scotland-yard, did attempt to arrest the anarchists though outnumbered six to one…’ Alastair looked up.
They count as badly as you do. Keats ignored him, gazing at Cynda. Alastair nosily cleared his throat. I’m reading this just once, he announced.
Go on, if you must. I already know I’m a hero, Keats replied.
One minor coup and he’s insufferable, Alastair grumbled.
Cynda stood at the window with her back to them in an effort not to burst out laughing. Their banter flowed over her like a warm spring breeze. Both had come a very long way. Once Alastair concluded the article, their conversation grew quieter, and then evolved into frank whispering.
You ask her, Keats suggested in a voice a bit louder than he might have wanted.
Silence—the kind that said something was up. She turned to find both men watching her, each with a question in their eyes.
Their intense interest unsettled her.
Alastair cleared his throat again. Now that certain matters are settled, Keats and I hope you’ll stay in London a bit longer this time.
Keats nodded enthusiastically. You will, won’t you?
Her lack of response ratcheted their apprehension. There was more earnest whispering.
Jacynda? Keats prompted. The anxiety in his voice was palpable, endearing.
She presented the pair a brilliant smile. They traded nervous glances.
Always keep ’em guessing.
Cynda turned toward the window, pushing aside the lace curtain to observe the scene below. A figure gazed up at her from across the street. It was the man who had saved her from Mimes’ knife…twice.
How did you know I was here?
Making no effort to conceal himself, he tipped his top hat in her direction. She responded with a cautious wave. Pleased by the gesture, he marched off at a jaunty pace, swinging his cane. She could almost hear him whistling.
Cynda let the curtain fall back in place. Too many unanswered questions.
She turned toward the two gentlemen. Their anxious expressions melted her heart. Lady Sephora and I are off to dinner, and then we’re going to a suffragette meeting. Should be quite interesting, she announced.
Keats sighed in relief. Then you’re staying.
For the time being. Until I find that blasted interface, or Morrisey says otherwise.
Alastair gave an amused nod of approval. Adjusting her hat, she crossed to the door in a rustle of fabric. I will see you both tomorrow. She winked at Keats. I’ll bring you more papers.
He beamed.
As she waited for Lady Sephora at the bottom of the stairs, the grandfather clock began to chime in deep, sonorous tones. She touched the solid mahogany case, savoring the vibrations through the wood as each hour pealed forth. Time had always been immaterial to her—insubstantial, like a light fog that chilled her momentarily as she passed through it. Now it felt real, and she sensed its passage.
Time and tide wait for no Rover, she murmured.
A blue leg waved at her from the clock pendulum. She grinned and then winked at the spider.
Hearing the rush of skirts, Cynda turned to find the lady of the house approaching her, a pleased smile on her face.
Ready for an adventure? Sephora asked, pulling on her mantelet.
Always.