A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7)

by Monique Martin

  Black horses with black plumes led the way. The ostrich feathers were wet and stuck up like matted sticks from the horses’ bridles. The driver, dressed in fine black clothes, soaked to the bone, kept his eyes forward and his pace measured as he drove the cart-like hearse past. On the sled behind it, rested a polished elm casket, glistening in the rain. It was followed by two black mourning coaches. Inside them, Victor could just make out the silhouettes of three men in black top hats, undoubtedly her family—father, husband and son.

  The small procession passed by in silence; the only sound the horses’ hooves, the wooden wheels against the cobblestone street and the tapping sound of the rain as it beat down on the brim of his cap.

  Once the carriages were past, the crowd livened again, and began to chatter and disperse. Victor waited and watched. Ignorant of what was to come, the people of Whitechapel went on with their lives, not knowing how much would change in just two days at the sharp end of a knife.

  ~~~

  London Hospital always made Elizabeth think of Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man. He’d been paraded as a spectacle in penny gaff entertainment, a low-brow theater show, in a shop across the street before eventually being rescued from a life of humiliation by a kind doctor. After that, he lived the rest of his days in one of the rooms of London Hospital. He was in there somewhere, right now. She frowned and scanned the windows of the grand stone and brick facade as their cab slowed to a stop.

  “I’m sure a visit can be arranged,” Simon said, clearly knowing where her thoughts were.

  She shook her head. “I feel silly. I know he’d probably welcome a visitor, but I feel like I’d be intruding.”

  Simon didn’t argue with her, but merely helped her down from the carriage to the street. She pulled her up her skirt to avoid a puddle of sludge.

  “If you change your mind,” was all he said. He would help her if she wanted it and leave it alone if she preferred that. She loved him for that.

  She smiled up at him and wound her arm through his. “I’ll think about it.”

  But she didn’t, her mind shifted to Dr. Blackwood. She’d spent some time last night preparing what she thought would be the sort of questions a reporter would ask, although she had the feeling she wouldn’t have to do much talking when the time came. If she could get the doctor started, talking about himself wouldn’t be a problem. Stopping him might.

  The hospital was massive and impressive. They got directions to the doctor’s office and made their way to the right wing. They’d just turned the last corner when they heard Dr. Blackwood’s voice, raised in anger.

  “I told you not to come here,” the doctor said. “Roderick!”

  A woman’s voice came next, her East End accent clear. “You fink you can do what you like, don’t ye? Doctor?” The last word was layered with contempt.

  “Get out!”

  There was a short scuffle of feet and an indignant cry of, “Get your ‘ands off me!” and then the woman was bodily escorted from the doctor’s office and out into the hall by a short, muscular man.

  He twisted her arm behind her back as she struggled. “That’s enough, Lizzy.”

  Elizabeth started to protest when Simon beat her to it.

  “Is something wrong?” Simon asked.

  Both of them turned in surprise.

  “It’s in hand,” the man said, squeezing the woman’s arms tightly as she tried to turn out of his grip.

  Simon glared at the man and looked meaningfully at the way he was holding her. “Then perhaps you should let her go.”

  He ignored Simon’s implied threat and looked back into the office. The woman turned her gray eyes to Simon, and Elizabeth could see she wanted to say something, but the doctor’s appearance in the doorway shut her mouth.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” the doctor said. “A misunderstanding. Roderick?” He nodded toward his man’s tight grip.

  Reluctantly, the other let go. Lizzy snorted and rubbed her arms, but held her tongue. The doctor took a step toward her and she flinched, backing up a step warily.

  “I think we’re clear on things now,” he said.

  She looked at him with venom and fear. “Crystal.”

  “See her out, Roderick,” the doctor ordered and his man reached for Lizzy’s arm again, but she snatched it away. She straightened the sleeves of her grubby dress and lifted her chin before walking away with as much pride as she could muster. Roderick followed a menacing pace behind her.

  “What was that all about?” Simon asked once she and Roderick were out of earshot.

  “Nothing.”

  “That was rather forceful for nothing,” Simon said.

  The doctor sighed. “You have to be firm with people like that. They’re used to behaving like animals; sometimes you must treat them as such.” He smiled then as though none of it had happened, and gestured for them to precede him into his office.

  “Is she a patient of yours?” Elizabeth asked as she walked into a large office with more books than air in it. It was all she could do to pretend two men manhandling a poor woman was perfectly normal and acceptable.

  “No,” he said with a gasping laugh. “Perhaps she’s seen me at the clinic or Bethlem.”

  “Bethlam?” Elizabeth asked. “Bethlam Royal Hospital?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think there are any others. Several of my test subjects are there. Patients that are beyond healing, but can still give us answers to the questions we seek.”

  Elizabeth nodded and tried not to look surprised. Bethlam Royal Hospital, better known as Bedlam, played an important part in Vale’s future. It had to be more than coincidence that Dr. Blackwood worked there as well.

  “Of course,” she said, casting a quick glance at Simon.

  The doctor moved around to sit behind his desk. “In addition to my heavy schedule, I volunteer once a week at a local clinic. Some of the patients think that means I’m available to them for everything, including skinned knees or the mumps.”

  “So you do hands on medicine in addition to your research?” Elizabeth asked taking a chair opposite him.

  “There is a shortage of capable physicians. I do what I can to pitch in,” he added with a modest smile. “But you’re not here to hear about that, are you? We have far greater things on the horizon. Our work is at the vanguard of discovering the clues to the Pathology of the Mind. The very essence of man.”

  He leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself. “Far more interesting than the mumps, don’t you think?”

  ~~~

  Victor leaned against the cold stone of the building and waited. Pizer was at work and with little else to go on, he decided that following the victim instead of the suspect might bear more fruit. Or any fruit at all.

  He’d found Annie Chapman leaving the Ten Bells at about ten o’clock that morning with Elizabeth Stride. They’d talked briefly and then walked over to Whitechapel Road. He wasn’t sure where he’d expected them to go, but the hospital wasn’t it.

  While Stride went inside, Chapman lingered out front. She flitted about, obviously a little nervous until she saw someone she recognized. A thick-necked cab driver smiled as she walked over to him. From Victor’s position, he couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other.

  He was surprised to see the Crosses go into the hospital, but he supposed they were following up one of their leads. Such as they were.

  About twenty minutes after she’d gone inside, Stride came down out of the hospital. It didn’t look as though she’d been treated for anything, there were no obvious signs anyway, but she was agitated. When she reached the bottom of the front steps, she turned back angrily. A stout man in a nice suit seemed to be the target of her temper. He was unmoved by it and turned to go back inside.

  Stride marched over to Chapman and the driver. The two women said their goodbyes to the man and walked off talking, each glancing back at the hospital before leaning in to whisper to the other.

  He trailed after them, w
ishing now he’d followed Stride inside the hospital instead of waiting out front with Chapman. Whomever Stride had spoken to and whatever they’d spoken about, both women had something to do with it. And when both women were soon-to-be victims of the Ripper that connection loomed all the more important. There was nothing he could do about it but stay with Chapman now and be there when the moment, however horrible, came.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ELIZABETH WAS GLAD SHE didn’t have a mirror to look in. If she looked half as bad as Simon, well then, she looked perfect. That didn’t do anything to calm the butterflies in her stomach though.

  “Let me see,” Simon said as he took her by the shoulders and turned her toward him in the faint lamplight of Victor’s room. He studied her face for a moment, making sure each soap and vinegar bubble looked like a blister or flaking skin.

  Inspired by their visit to the theater and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, they’d found a small theater shop and bought make-up and false teeth to enhance their East End looks. It had done the trick. Their healthy complexions were sallow now, their skin diseased, even the shapes of their faces were changed by the false teeth.

  Simon finished examining her and nodded, his eyes catching hers and lingering. In them she could see all of her fears and worries reflected, and enhanced. Last time they’d done this, they’d both nearly gotten killed. And tonight, Victor would not be there to save their bacon. He was on his own path, as was Charles Graham. It seemed the best idea to separate, increasing their chances of seeing what needed to be seen. But now, alone together, about to head out again into the miasma of Whitechapel, Elizabeth felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

  Simon squeezed her shoulders gently in comfort.

  “It will be all right,” he said, and then let her go to recheck the pistol in his pocket that he’d already checked and rechecked half a dozen times.

  “We’ve been in worse situations,” Elizabeth said, leaving off that this one felt different somehow.

  It felt like the night itself was a physical presence all around them, pressing against them, fighting them. They’d gone into dangerous situations before and she’d always been frightened, it was foolish not to be, but there was something about this entire mission that left her feeling off balance. Maybe it was the way time could alter, like an earthquake, without warning and the earth beneath their feet suddenly shifting. Or maybe it was that the whole thing was tainted. They’d saved people before, people who deserved a second chance. She shuddered to think what Jack the Ripper would do with his.

  “All right?” Simon asked.

  She nodded and Simon slipped in his false teeth.

  “Stay close,” he said and she couldn’t help but laugh.

  The teeth changed his voice and gave him a marble-mouthed sound and whistling “s”.

  “Elizabeth,” he said and she laughed again.

  It was nerves and she shook her head in apology.

  He took out the teeth. “Elizabeth.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He fought down a smile and started to put the teeth back in, but instead took a step toward her. His hand gently cupped her cheek. His eyes darted back and forth across her face, taking her all in.

  There was a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. “You’re…hideous,” he said. She would have laughed if it wasn’t for the way his eyes darkened into something emotional.

  His voice grew low and rough. “And I love you so very much.”

  An instant lump formed in the back of her throat and she tried to swallow it. She nodded and took a small hiccuping breath.

  He leaned down and kissed her. As his lips touched hers, she wanted to stop time. She wanted to stay right there in that moment and forget everything that came before and everything that would come after. But time wasn’t on her payroll and ignored her.

  Simon gently pulled away and looked at her fiercely. “Stay close.”

  “If I could get in your pocket, I would.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  She put in her false teeth, and with one last look at each other, they started for Whitechapel and the murder of Annie Chapman.

  ~~~

  The street outside of Crossingham’s lodging house was nearly empty. A few people staggered past, but none gave Victor a second thought. He saw a few carts and carriages drive past as he waited. One was the same cab from the hospital with the driver Chapman had talked to, but the carriage didn’t stop here; it drove past and disappeared into the night.

  Victor leaned against a wall across the street, and packed a new pipe as he continued to wait. It was his third. He was smoking far too much. Not that it mattered. Something else would surely kill him first.

  He lit the pipe and settled in. He’d been following Annie Chapman all day. She’d made the usual rounds, pub after pub, until finally stumbling back to her lodging house.

  From reading Travers’ files Victor knew what was happening inside. She’d run out of money, having spent her last penny at the pub. Right now, she was probably promising the deputy that she’d go out and earn enough, and to please save her a bed for the night. Without it, she would be out on the street.

  Victor took a pull from his pipe and blew the smoke up into the cooling night air. Modern people thought they knew what a hand to mouth existence was, what surviving day to day really meant, but most had no idea how literal it was in Whitechapel.

  A few minutes later, right on cue, the night watchman escorted Chapman from the lodging house. She would come back with the four pence for a bed or not come back at all, he told her.

  She would not come back at all.

  The line between life and death was always thin—turning left instead of right, being five minutes early or five minutes late—made all the difference. For Annie Chapman, the difference between life and death was four pence.

  Still quite drunk, Chapman teetered on her feet before aiming herself in the direction of Bushfield Street. Victor waited until she was far enough ahead and then followed quietly behind.

  He was nothing more than a shadow in her shadow. Even if she were sober, he was sure she would take no notice of him. This was what he excelled at—following, watching, waiting.

  As they made their way through the rabbit warren of streets that made up the East End, he was glad he was on his own and didn’t have to babysit the Crosses. They would no doubt get into trouble here again, but it would not be his problem this time. This time the mission would come first, as it should have before. He wasn’t sure what had come over him then. He should have let those thugs cut their throats and be done with them, but he hadn’t. Couldn’t.

  Perhaps some spark of humanity lived inside him after all. If it did, he thought with a tightening in his gut, it would die tonight.

  Gently slapping his pipe against his palm, he knocked the last bit of smoldering tobacco out. It fell into a dank puddle, fizzled briefly, and then disappeared.

  Chapman turned toward Spitalfields Market and her fate, and Victor followed. They’d only gone a few blocks when Victor noticed a man casually leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed over chest. The clothes were different, and it took Victor a moment to place the face under the bowler hat, but he recognized the man—Charles Graham. It wasn’t surprising to see him here. After all, he was on the same hunt.

  Even though he didn’t know who Victor was, thank God Cross had at least enough sense to keep him out of his plan, Victor kept in the shadows. He didn’t like to be seen—by anyone, if he could help it, and Graham was no exception.

  Luckily, Victor could see Annie Chapman quite well now. She walked down the center of the street, meandering along some invisible line. When she saw Graham, she wove her way over to him.

  Victor couldn’t get close enough to hear their conversation without giving himself away, and so he stayed put and watched.

  Graham tipped his hat and she set about trying to earn her four pence. She leaned against his arm in what was supposed to be a seductive way, and m
ight have been if she hadn’t nearly fallen in the process. Graham helped her stand back up and she laughed, trying to straighten her hat. She placed a “don’t you want to?” hand on his arm and jerked her head toward a nearby alley.

  They spoke for another moment before Chapman ran a finger along Graham’s cheek and then started off down the street. Graham watched her and then started north, probably heading to the scene of the crime from the back way. If the Crosses managed to stay alive tonight, it would be like a damned train station there.

  Victor waited long enough for Graham to be out of sight and then hurried along the sidewalk to catch up to Chapman. It was easy enough work; she was slow on her feet. He could hear her humming something to herself, but he didn’t recognize the tune.

  Spitalfields Market was just up ahead. The large open-air market was as quiet as a graveyard. This time tomorrow it would be filled with costermongers and carts readying for the early Sunday morning shoppers. But for now, it lay still and empty, a promise of something to come.

  Chapman stopped for a moment and looked longingly through the gate. When she continued on, she didn’t keep going east as Victor had assumed she would. She turned left and he had to cross the street to follow her. As he did, two men stepped out of doorway.

  “What’re ya doin’?” one of of them said, as they blocked his path.

  He tried to ignore them and move around the big one, but he sidestepped in front him.

  “We don’t like strangers,” he said, “‘specially strangers that follow girls.”

  Victor gave them both a quick study. They were no match for him, even with the blackjack the smaller one held in the palm of his hand. They were both out of shape. The big man wheezed just standing there.

  “Mind your own business,” Victor said and started forward.

  The big man put a meaty hand on his chest and Victor grabbed his wrist and thumb, twisting it until the man cried out.