Chapter 8
Upon her return, Cynda found Morrisey awake, reading a newspaper. At his elbow was a cup of tea. The furniture had been moved to create an open space, suggesting he’d practiced his Tai Chi during her absence. Much like a chameleon, he was rapidly adapting to his surroundings. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
He studied her clothes with a critical eye. “Is that what is required for an inquest?”
“No. Just trying to be invisible. Not everyone knows my brain is back from vacation, and I’d like to leave it that way.” The hat and veil came off immediately, followed by the mantelet. “That’s better. I can actually see.”
She stepped inside her bedroom and closed the door. A rummage in the wardrobe produced her old costume, all patched and faded. Waltzing through the front lobby looking like a beggar would invite problems. She’d have to slip out some side door. The spare room at Pratchett’s Book Shop would have been an ideal solution, but she had to admit she liked a hot bath every now and then.
“How’s your time lag?” she called out, pulling on the worn skirt.
“Better. I had a long nap and some tea.”
“Excellent.” Not as good as sex, but it works.
“I gather you’re changing clothes,” he called back. “Do I need to do the same?”
“Yes. We’re headed for the East End. Dress downmarket. We got away with what we were wearing this morning, but at night it’s best to blend in.”
She heard noises from the sitting room. “Luckily, I brought something appropriate,” she heard him say. “I gather the garments can have lice or fleas in them if you buy them secondhand here.”
“He did read the run reports,” Mr. Spider announced. “Sobering thought.”
Morrisey would remember all those details. She just remembered most of them.
Cynda heard him open his pasteboard suitcase. His boots hit the floor with two pronounced thumps.
“I met up with Alastair Montrose at the inquest,” she reported.
“Oh.” Then silence.
“Morrisey?”
More silence.
“Hello, boss?”
“One moment. I’m still dressing.” Now that was so Victorian.
Oh, she was enjoying this. How many Rovers got to mess with the Genius? “The first time you were here, you saw me in a bathtub. Why can’t I see you in your underwear?”
“Because this Victorian underwear is embarrassing,” he groused. “All right, I’m decent.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped out, still buttoning her bodice. He was tugging on his boots. Other than his clean-shaven face, he could easily be mistaken for some loser in the East End. The clothes were perfect.
Then she remembered his special ability. “Why don’t you go en mirage? It’d be easier.”
“This takes less concentration.”
“Which means you don’t shift often,” she replied.
He seemed surprised at her knowledge. “No, I don’t,” he said. “No real point.” He mussed up his hair and stuck on the slouch cap. He looked disreputable. “Stop fretting. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Well, that’s at least one of you,” Mr. Spider said, peering into her boss’ luggage. He jumped out of the way as Morrisey snapped it shut and stashed it by the couch. “Tidy, isn’t he?”
Overly.
They retraced some of their route through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. While Morrisey was methodically cataloguing streets and sights, she was listening to the ebb and flow of conversations.
“The smell is so strong here,” he remarked, his nose wrinkling in spite of himself. “I knew it would be bad, but…” Just then, his attention was drawn to a constable standing on the other side of the street.
“They’re all over the place. Still hunting the Ripper,” she explained. Pity they never catch him.
“I’ve read about all this and seen some of the photographs, but nothing prepares you for the reality,” he mused, turning in a full circle to get a panorama.
“No. Nothing can.”
“How do you cope?” he asked suddenly. “One moment you’re there, and then you’re here. There is such a difference between the two worlds.”
She wondered if he’d understand. “That’s part of the thrill. Here you have to live by your wits. At home…” She shrugged. “I just run afoul of the rules all the time.”
He turned cocky. “So do I. I’m a wanted man now,” he said in a low voice. “I find that amusing.”
Until they throw your butt in jail.
A voice called out to them. Cynda turned, knowing it sounded familiar. A bootblack. A young one.
“Miss Jacynda!” the boy cried. He grinned widely as she worked on his name. His face was grubby, like most of them, but there was a brightness to his eyes that she recognized.
“Hello there, how have you been?” she said, buying time. A young kid about twelve. As he moved forward toward her, she noted the limp. That helped.
“I’m right fine.” He peered up at her quizzically. “How ’bout you?”
“I’m much better.” He opened his mouth to help her out, but she held up a hand. “Let me do it.” Yes, that’s it. “David Edward Butler.”
He cheered and broke out in a smile. “You remember me! You didn’t the last time.” Then he gave Morrisey a curious look. “Who’s this gent?”
“Davy, this is Mr. Morrisey.”
“Ah, yes.” Morrisey offered a hand, and the two of them shook. “You are the son of Dr. Montrose’s housekeeper.”
“Right you are! Pleased to meet you, sir.” Then David peered down at her companion’s boots and shook his head in mock despair. Cynda winked at her boss and he took the hint. As Davy applied his talents, she used the opportunity to solicit the kid’s street knowledge
“We’re looking for a missing Irish girl. About sixteen or so. Her name’s Fiona. We think she’s somewhere in Whitechapel.”
“What does she look like?” Davy asked, applying the polish.
Cynda did as best she could with what Flaherty had told her.
Davy’s eyes rose from his work. “Lots of Irish girls in Whitechapel.”
“I know. I just thought I’d tell you in case you hear something.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Do it carefully,” Morrisey warned. “There are people who won’t want her found. It might be dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful.” Davy signaled for him to switch feet. Then he looked up again, frowning. “You sound posh, but your clothes aren’t. You slummin’?”
It was Morrisey’s turn to wink. “Something like that.”
“Ah, well, that’s all right then.” The kid went back to work with a vengeance.
A block after they left Davy behind, Cynda pointed toward a puddle of muddy water. Before she could explain, Morrisey walked through it to obscure some of the bootblack’s handiwork, which was clearly out of place with his garb.
“Quick study,” the spider observed from her shoulder.
Too quick. Those kind usually get in trouble.
It took her some time to relax. It was bad enough she was reacquainting herself with 1888, but having a beginner in tow just made it harder. She fretted about every seedy character who eyed them, the thick traffic, the pickpockets.
“I’m fine,” her companion said. “Stop worrying.”
“I’ll try.”
With each pub, dining hall, and street market they visited, she felt herself slipping back into the rhythm of Victorian London. It felt right. Every now and then she’d whisper some bit of advice to Morrisey and he’d nod in response. He rarely asked questions, but his attention remained sharply focused. They’d chatted with newspaper boys, costermongers, a couple of whores, a butcher, and a girl selling milk. Morrisey hadn’t complained once, not about the throng of people or their lack of bathing habits. By now he should be begging for fresh air.
Points for style, boss.
The strangest thing was the contented look on his face. She hadn’t expected that. “You act as if you’re enjoying yourself,” she observed.
He offered his arm and she took it, as would be expected. “I am, in many ways.”
“Why?”
“At home, I’m too well known. I’m stared at all the time if I go out in public. It’s one of the reasons I keep out of view.” His expression transformed into a genuine smile. “Here, I’m no one. It’s refreshing.”
She hadn’t ever thought of that. “It must be weird to be so famous.”
“It’s a double-edged sword. I see why Harter hides himself away like this. It has a certain appeal.”
Along with some downsides.
Not wanting to ruin his good mood, she said, “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint. Watch what you say. The pub will be crowded.”
The Ten Bells was packed, as usual. After muscling their way to the bar and claiming their drinks, they found a spot in the back of the room.
“Right friendly place, ain’t it?” Morrisey remarked. His thick working-class accent sounded natural. He had the advantage on her: he was a native.
“Not hearin’ much that helps us, though,” she replied, trying to match him.
“Well, at least the ale’s worth the time,” he said, taking another sip and smacking his lips.
She nearly burst out laughing. If the Vid-News reporters ever caught wind of T.E. Morrisey slumming in 1888 London, their readership would double.
“Is it always like this?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. “Friday’s a holiday. They want to get a head start on the drinkin’.”
“No, no, he’s good for it!” someone shouted above the din. “They’re all crooked, those rozzers. Don’t want to pay for a leg-over like the rest of us.”
That generated raucous laughter. To her astonishment, Morrisey called out, “Why pay for what ya get for free?”
Before she could issue a warning, a man answered, “Right ya are, sor. That’s what I’m sayin’.”
“I’m sure I saw him with old Polly,” another said. “He’s got to be the Ripper. How else could he get away with it?”
“I bet he was goin’ to do that posh bint like the others, but he heard ’em comin’ and ran away,” a woman said.
“Not that rozzer,” a young woman piped up. “He’s a good sort. He’d slip me tuppence every now and then, tell me to get home safe.”
“Oh, I’d slip ya brass too, but you’d have to earn it,” a man said, elbowing her.
“I know yer kind, Tom. Yer all talk.” More rude laughter.
“I heard someone spoke up for him. Some Irish girl,” another man added. “She’s lucky Flaherty gave the word or she’d be payin’ for that dearly.”
“Yes, she was lucky,” the woman said pensively. “But it was the right thing to do.”
“I wouldn’t do that for no rozzer,” the one called Tom shot back. “Ya heart’s too big, Mary. Ya can’t see the truth for what it is.”
Mary?
Cynda thought she’d seen her before. Young woman. Red shawl, no hat. Some night in… She couldn’t quite remember. It had been in front of the Ten Bells. Then it fell into place.
“What’s wrong?” Morrisey asked.
“Nothin’. Done with yer pint?” she asked, working hard to keep in character.