Lost In Time

by W M Wiltshire

  “Think about it,” Quinn persisted. “We’ve observed feats that were thought to be impossible, until they were eventually accomplished; now, for all intents and purposes, they’re taken for granted. Think about the heavier-than-air flying machine. Or how about breaking the sound barrier? And what about flights to the moon? Or the creation of International Space Station? Why couldn’t time travel be similar?”

  Richard didn’t believe what Quinn was telling him. Time travel? It wasn’t possible. If this ever got out, Quinn would be the laughingstock of the university, of the entire physics community for that matter. Yet, Richard couldn’t completely discount what Quinn had just said. Because, he strongly believed, if time travel could be accomplished, if it really could be done, Quinn would be the man to do it.

  Richard had to learn more, not only for Quinn’s sake, but for his own.

  “You can’t be serious?” Richard asked, skeptical.

  “I’m dead serious! And I can prove it.”

  130: Monday, September 3, 1888

  “Come on Dani, you need a break. You’ve been working really hard this morning and I don’t want you to overdo it.” Mary was still concerned over what she observed at the dinner table the night before.

  “I’d like to introduce you to someone special,” Mary said, leading Dani down a long hallway toward the back of the hospital. When they reached the end, Mary opened a door. “Dani, I’d like you to meet . . .”

  “The Elephant Man!” Dani blurted. She immediately regretted her outburst, but it was too late. The man had already turned away from the door in shame, a feeling he was all too familiar with.

  Dani remembered her parents talking several years before about a widely reported story back in 1987, when the ‘King of Pop’ had offered the London Hospital $1 million for the Elephant Man’s bones. Not knowing what an Elephant Man was and being the inquisitive child she was, Dani had done a little research. She had discovered that Joseph Merrick, a.k.a. the Elephant Man, had begun to develop abnormally at an early age. The cause of his malformed head, curved spine, “lumpy” skin and overgrown right arm and hand had never been definitively explained until recently. It was originally thought that he was suffering from elephantiasis, a condition that is characterized by a thickening of the skin and underlying tissues and that often leaves the victim seriously disfigured. A more recent study of the evidence concluded that Joseph Merrick suffered from a rare congenital hamartomatous disorder called Proteus syndrome. Dani’s research had also revealed that Joseph Merrick had spent his entire life being gawked at by circus-goers and poked and prodded by curious doctors.

  Realizing her thoughtlessness, Dani hurried down the two steps into the sunken room. She approached the man and stood directly in front of him. She reached out and gently cradled his left hand in hers.

  “Please forgive my outburst. It was very rude of me. I think I was just caught a little by surprise. Please forgive me,” Dani pleaded, sincerely.

  “Of course,” he stuttered, looking down at their entwined hands. He looked back up at Dani’s face and could tell she was totally embarrassed by her earlier comment. But what completely fascinated him was the fact that she wasn’t repulsed by his appearance. And he was relishing their close proximity. He couldn’t remember ever feeling a gentler touch than he was experiencing now. He didn’t want it to end. And her fragrance reminded him of the sweet smell of the flowers in the garden just outside his window.

  Mary was impressed by the young lady’s genuine regret and how quickly she addressed her failing. Mary didn’t know whether she would have acted as graciously if she had been in Dani’s shoes.

  “Dani, this is Joseph Merrick. Joseph, this is Dani Delaney,” Mary said, as she finished the introductions she had started earlier.

  “Joseph, I am very pleased to meet you,” Dani said sweetly, smiling at Joseph.

  “Would you like to have a game of draughts?” Joseph asked shyly, reluctant to release Dani’s hand.

  “I don’t know, Joseph; I’m working right now,” Dani replied sadly, looking over her shoulder at Mary.

  “Go ahead, Dani, you could use a short break. Come back to the common ward when you’re done here,” Mary encouraged.

  “And Joseph, go easy on Dani; give her a chance to win a game or two,” Mary scolded good-humouredly, as she left the room so the two could get acquainted.

  “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the game of draughts,” Dani admitted.

  “I’ll teach you; it’s easy,” Joseph said excitedly. He reluctantly let go of Dani’s hand and went over to a set of dresser drawers. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a game board and a box, setting them down on a nearby table. He opened the ten-by-ten inch game board and started setting out the pieces, all the while explaining the game.

  “You can have the light pieces, which means you get to go first,” Joseph explained. He was as giddy as a child on Christmas day and it reflected in his voice.

  “We take turns moving our pieces diagonally on the board to an open square. We can only use the dark squares. You can jump my pieces, which means you capture them and remove them from the board.”

  “And when I get to the opposite end of the board, you crown my piece,” Dani continued.

  Joseph stood erect or as erect as his condition would allow. He looked quizzically at Dani. “You have played this.”

  “Sorry, Joseph, I wasn’t familiar with the name of the game. Where I come from, we call it checkers.”

  131

  “Can’t you conduct your research from somewhere else?” Daric asked. He was extremely concerned for Clara’s safety.

  “Don’t be silly. You know I have to talk to the women who work around here,” Clara reminded him.

  “Can’t they go to your house?” Daric had been trying to get Clara to change her mind, but she would have none of it.

  “I don’t think the streets are safe around here. You know just the other day a body was found on a street not far from here. They believe it to be murder,” Daric pleaded.

  “And did you know that just last year there were approximately 150,000 people convicted of drunkenness, more than twenty-five-hundred people who committed suicide, and over two-thousand bodies found dead on streets, in parks, and in hovels? Most of them were right here in the East End. So, to answer your question, yes, I know the streets aren’t safe,” Clara replied, agitated. “But this is where my work is.”

  A loud bang startled them, almost causing them to jump out of their seats. They turned to face the source of the commotion. “Beer and make it quick,” the man bellowed. A second, smaller man ordered the same, walking up to the bar.

  “Hang onto your hat, Lusk. I’ll get to you in a minute,” William growled back.

  George Lusk was a local builder and contractor and a member of the Metropolitan Board of Works. He was a stalky six-foot-two and looked to be close to fifty-years-old. He was wearing a calf-length frock coat and a high Derby hat. He also carried an intricately carved walking stick. Lusk didn’t use it to aid his steps, but carried it more like a baseball bat. His handlebar mustache and cold penetrating eyes only intensified his no-nonsense aura.

  The smaller man accompanying him was Frederick “Fred” Best, a journalist for The Star, sent to obtain some human interest stories around the Whitechapel murders. He was lucky if he reached five-foot-six and looked to tip the scales at one-hundred-fifty pounds. He had narrow eyes that were deep-set and dark brown.

  The two had met earlier that day and, with a few well-chosen words and compelling motivation, Best had lit a fire under Lusk. Best was looking for that sensational story. He pegged Lusk as being very gullible because he was so easily swayed. All Best had to do was tell Lusk that the murderer could easily prey on any of his seven children.

  Best had also picked this specific location, the Frying Pan pub, because he knew there would be a la
rge audience at this time of day for Lusk’s performance. And, as if on cue . . .

  “How many more of our women folk are going to have to lie in the streets dead before the police do something about it?” Lusk bellowed. The pub went deathly quiet.

  “I say they’re not doing enough to find the culprit responsible for these crimes.” That remark stirred up a few affirmative murmurs from some of the male patrons.

  “I say we form our own committee of vigilance to protect the women of our neighbourhood and to make the streets safe for all of us.” That really stirred up the crowd.

  Best stood there, sipping his beer and watching as the crowd got worked up. He wrung his hands with delight. He had picked the perfect partner in crime, so to speak. He chuckled at his own joke.

  * * *

  Sitting by himself at a table in the back corner was a man wearing an Inverness coat. A deerstalker hat and Gladstone bag sat on the table next to his glass. He was listening intently to the conversation.

  132

  “How did you get that?” Mel Palmer asked her friend when she ran into her on Dorset Street. She was referring to the bruising that was quite evident on her friend’s right temple.

  Mel Palmer was in her late forties and had a pale face and dark brown hair. She was a domestic servant for a local Jewish resident. And she was a long-time acquaintance of Annie Chapman.

  “And that’s not all,” Annie responded as she opened her dress and revealed more bruising on her chest. “I don’t feel so well, either.”

  Annie Chapman was forty-seven years of age. She was five-foot-tall and rather plump. Her blue eyes were set in an ashen face. Her dark brown hair was short and wavy.

  Annie had been living at Crossingham’s Lodging House at 35 Dorset Street, where she paid eightpence a night for a double bed. Annie got a paltry income from her crochet work and making and selling artificial flowers. When she needed to make ends meet, she turned to prostitution, like so many others.

  As the two women stood together in the street, Annie proceeded to explain what had happened. “This whole mess started two days ago, when I borrowed a bar of soap from one of the other lodgers, a woman by the name of Eliza Cooper. That night, I gave the soap to some man to wash with and never saw it again. But this woman, Eliza, kept asking me to give it back to her. Finally, I’d had enough of her badgering and tossed her a ha’penny and told her to go get a ha’penny of soap.”

  Then yesterday, I ran into the same bloody woman at the Britannia pub, over there,” Annie continued, as she pointed to the eastern corner of Dorset Street. “She was onto me again about that damn bar of soap. I got tired of her ranting and I slapped her across the face and told her, ‘Think yourself lucky I don’t do more.’”

  Annie paused, took a cautious breath and continued. “Then she hauled off and punched me in the right eye and then in the chest, knocking me to the floor. She never said anything. She just turned and stormed out of the pub. She had the nerve to attack me, right there in the pub, in front of all those people, over a lousy piece of soap!”

  Mel knew of Eliza. She had a good six inches and fifty pounds over Annie. The short-lived fight had evidently been very one-sided. Mel could tell Annie wasn’t herself; she looked like she had got the worse of the exchange with Eliza.

  “I may go see my sister,” Annie said, changing the subject abruptly. “If I can get a pair of boots from her, I might go hop picking,” she mused hopefully, since a bit of hop picking would give her the money she needed for lodging.

  133

  Daric had finished at the Frying Pan pub for the day. He’d told Rich that he would walk to the station rather than have Rich pick him up. Daric felt he needed to stretch his legs and get a bit of exercise. Besides, it wasn’t that far to the station.

  As Daric turned the corner onto Commercial Street, a man jumped out in front of him and demanded, “Give me your money!”

  “I don’t have any,” Daric replied calmly. Even if he had, he wasn’t about to hand it over to this ruffian.

  “Sure you do. You work at the Frying Pan. I’ve seen you there. Now give it up,” he said, giving Daric a shove for emphasis, throwing him back against the wall of a public house.

  “I work there to pay off a debt. I don’t get paid. So as I told you, I don’t have any money.” Daric was trying hard not to exacerbate the already tense situation. He was resisting his innate urge to retaliate, as he would normally have done, but he recognized that this was anything but normal.

  “Then give me your valuables and make it quick,” the man ordered.

  “I told you. I don’t have anything to give you,” Daric said, clearly irritated.

  “What about that?” The man was pointing at Daric’s bracelet. “Hand it over, now!”

  “Not on your life. Now get out of my way,” Daric said, taking a step forward.

  The would-be thief didn’t budge. He pulled back his arm, made a fist and put all his weight behind the punch he threw Daric’s way. Daric dodged right. The thrown punch hit the brick wall right behind Daric’s head. There was a guttural eruption that started deep within and grew in volume as the pain intensified. The man spun away, cradling his hand, and writhing in agony. Daric thought now would be an opportune time to continue on his way. “I told you, I have nothing to give you.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Daric, how are you?” Constable Barrett greeted Daric upon entering the station.

  “Great, thanks. How about yourself?” Daric asked cordially.

  “It’s been crazy around here, what with two murders and all,” Barrett replied. “How’s your sister doing?” Barrett asked as an afterthought, remembering the dash through the streets a few days ago.

  “She’s much better, thank you. You mentioned two murders. I thought there was only one,” Daric responded questioningly.

  “We had one about four weeks back. We were still working on it when this one pops up. Even though it’s not rightly ours, we’ve been told by Superintendent Arnold to get them solved, pronto,” Barrett grumbled.

  After leaving the front reception desk, Daric found Detective Sergeant Frank Borto frantically shuffling through a pile of papers on his desk, several of which had found their way to the floor.

  Daric decided to bury the hatchet and offer Frank the proverbial olive branch. “Hey, Frank, how’s it going?”

  Frank looked up and wasn’t overly thrilled with the jovial expression on Daric’s face. “I’m as busy as a one-legged arse kicker, what do you think?” he replied gruffly. He then bent down to pick up the mess of papers scattered on the floor. Daric stooped down to lend the poor guy a hand.

  “Thanks,” Frank stammered, once he had placed the papers back on the desk. He reached into his back trouser pocket and pulled out a silver flask. Spinning the top, he threw back a belt, and then offered the flask to Daric.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Have it your way,” Frank scoffed, stopping the flask and putting it back in its customary place.

  “Is Inspector Case busy?” Daric inquired.

  “Yeah, but go on in; he’s expecting you,” Frank muttered, continuing to look for something that was determined to evade him.

  Daric went to Rich’s office. He knocked and entered upon hearing, “Come in.”

  “Aw, Daric, come, sit. Tell me something that will make my day,” Rich encouraged, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

  “I almost got mugged. Does that make your day?” Daric said flippantly.

  “What? Where? Are you all right?” Rich fired off a series of questions in rapid succession.

  “Mugged, corner of Commercial and Fashion, by the Queen’s Head pub, and, yes, I’m all right,” Daric replied in the correct order.

  “Can you describe him? Maybe we can track him down.”

  “It was dark. I think he was about my age, maybe a
bit older, muscular build and I thought I saw a tattoo, but don’t ask me what it was. I’d know him, if I saw him again,” Daric assured Rich.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. So, what can you tell me about the rest of your day?”

  Daric didn’t need his notebook because there really wasn’t much to report. And what he needed to tell Rich, he could do from memory.

  “There were two gentlemen who came into the pub and stirred up the crowd. The loud-mouth was George Lusk, a local builder. The other was a journalist with The Star, a Fred Best,” Daric reported succinctly.

  “I always rely on my first impressions, my gut feeling, and they have yet to steer me wrong,” Rich said. “So tell me, what is your gut telling you about these two?”

  “I don’t like Lusk. I think he’s a troublemaker. And I don’t trust that little weasel reporter, either. There’s just something about him.”

  Rich erupted into laughter, catching Daric totally off guard.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Your colorful assessment complemented by your serious expression,” Rich explained. “Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you, Daric. But you made my day. Along with the fact that the coroner has adjourned Mary Ann Nichols’ inquest until Monday, September 17th. Hopefully, we can dig up some evidence before then. Come on, let’s call it a night,” Rich said.

  Rich and Daric left the office just in time to see Frank jumping out of his chair. It flew backwards, tipped over, and went crashing to the floor. The noise caught the attention of Frank’s fellow officers. They all stopped what they were doing to check out the untimely disruption.

  Frank was gripping the corner of his desk and vigorously shaking his right leg.

  “What’s with you,” a fellow constable asked.

  “Leg cramp,” Frank replied, balancing on one leg while continuing to shake the other out to the side. The rest of the officers returned to their duties, shaking their heads at ‘good old’ Frank’s antics.