A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7)

by Monique Martin

  “I envy you,” Graham said. “Having a partner. An equal,” he added with a deferential tilt of his head toward Elizabeth.

  Simon nodded.

  “Well,” Graham said. “Perhaps there’s hope for Katherine. Who knows, she might just come around yet.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  SLEEP WAS AS ELUSIVE as luck in this cursed place. Victor scrubbed the grit from his eyes, wincing slightly as he was reminded of the bruise he sported under one them. He would do no one any good sitting in his room trying to force what would not come, though. He’d left just a few hours after the Crosses, and his mood was as gray as the sky.

  The morning fog had refused to lift and blanketed the city with heavy, wet air. Victor walked through the murky streets toward Ten Bells. He wanted a drink, a sure sign he shouldn’t have one.

  The pub was still filled with angry East Enders, and Victor knew that with the frenzy over the murder, things would only get worse. Once the yellow press sank their teeth into the story, sensational headlines would keep it on the front page for months to come. As a man hawking the latest edition passed the front door of the pub, he knew the newspapers would make a killing off the killing. The paper even promised pictures of the murderer. Of course all that amounted to was a cartoon of a ghoul floating through the streets of Whitechapel. Not that that was all that far from the truth, Victor thought. This man was flesh and blood, of that he was certain, but he was as elusive as a ghost. Not that any of that mattered to the papers. What was true and what sold papers were seldom the same. What they didn’t know, they made up, and everything they printed fed the growing mania.

  The hysteria would only make his job more difficult. The vigilantes from last night were proof enough of that.

  Feeling more sullen than usual, Victor found an empty table on the edge of the room and settled in to watch and wait. He nursed a warm beer for nearly an hour before the two men who’d ambushed him last night appeared. The only way he wouldn’t get caught in their net again was to become one of them. And it was possible, he realized, that the killer himself could well be thinking the same thing. Was one of the men sworn to protect the city the very one stalking it?

  Victor started to stand to approach the men when he heard a familiar voice.

  “Ye look terrible,” Marie said.

  He hesitated and then gestured for her to sit down, waiting until she did before doing so himself. It was a small, inconsequential act of politeness, but apparently they were so rare here that she paused, unsure for a moment and then smiled as though he’d given her a dozen roses.

  He could not bring himself to return the smile.

  Her kind eyes scanned his face, frowning at what she saw. Even without a mirror, he knew well what he looked like. The beating last night had done his looks no favors, but Marie didn’t seem to mind.

  “You’ve got quite a shiner there,” she said, reaching out to touch the skin above his cheek.

  He wanted to pull away, but he didn’t. It wasn’t that he missed the soft touch of woman’s hand, he told himself. She was an ally. She could help him infiltrate the Vigilance Committee. He needed her.

  “I could make ye a poultice,” she said as she deftly touched the wound. “Or you could get some arnica. Tincture’s best for bruises like that.”

  “You seem to know a lot about these things.”

  She smiled a little shyly. “Had an aunt who was a nurse. She worked with Florence Nightingale at the Crimea.”

  “Impressive,” Victor said, and actually meaning it.

  Marie’s smile gave way to sadness. “I learned a few things from her, but that sort of life weren’t never in the cards for me.”

  “You are too young to believe such a thing.”

  She shrugged, but he could see that she was pleased by what he said. “You really think so?”

  Victor finished his beer. “I do.”

  Marie looked at him with hope, clearly hungry to believe him, but she shook her head. “I’m too stupid.”

  He leaned forward and put his hand on her forearm. “You can be anything you want to be.”

  An argument erupted near the bar, quickly devolving into a short-lived fistfight; the loser tossed, quite literally, out on his ear.

  “If you left this place,” Victor added.

  Marie leaned forward, her eyes getting watery with coming tears. She looked down at his hand and then back into his face. “You almost make me believe it.”

  What was he doing? Idiot. Victor pulled his hand away and leaned back in his chair. His discomfort was not lost on her.

  A man at a nearby table belched loudly and won a round of laughter.

  She laughed lightly to cover her embarrassment. “Wot? And leave all this?”

  ~~~

  Simon enjoyed the cognac and little else. He and Elizabeth hadn’t had two minutes alone with Dr. Blackwood all night. They’d been pleased, and a little surprised, to receive the doctor’s dinner invitation. The mystery of why hadn’t lasted long.

  “There you are,” George Roxbury said as he strode toward them with a broad, welcoming smile on his face.

  “So you’re the one behind this,” Elizabeth said, holding up the invitation card. “I didn’t think the doctor had suddenly been wooed by my charms.”

  “Or mine,” Simon added, winning a laugh from Roxbury.

  He kissed Elizabeth’s cheek and shook Simon’s hand. “My family is a somewhat important benefactor for London and Bethlam Hospitals. The doctor and others might be foolish, but they are not fools.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” he continued. “Things have grown a bit dull around here,” he said with a mischievous smile. “I was hoping you might liven them up.”

  Sadly, he was going to be disappointed. Elizabeth was on her best behavior and they were both focused on something other than Roxbury’s amusement. Dr. Blackwood was their leading suspect and he’d invited them into his home. It was an opportunity they couldn’t pass up. Unfortunately, the dinner party was rather large and the doctor, never one to be miserly with the gift of his presence, gave it out freely to one and all. Even Elizabeth’s best attempts to persuade him to give her a follow-up interview were brushed aside with a distracted wave as Blackwood hurried to mix and mingle with his more important guests.

  Elizabeth made a sour face as she watched Blackwood’s stout backside depart. “If you were an earl or something he’d listen to us. But no, you’re just a lousy baronet.”

  Simon laughed, but it was true. His title was near the bottom of the barrel. To most here, anything short of peerage was barely noticeable.

  “You shouldn’t have married so far beneath you,” Simon teased.

  She stretched to her toes and scanned the crowd. “There’s probably a dotty old duke around here somewhere. Maybe I can upgrade.”

  “Don’t even joke about it,” Simon said.

  Elizabeth laughed and then turned to look around the party. “Well, we’re not going to learn anything interesting standing here together. If we split up, we can cover more ground.”

  She was right, of course. “Just don’t stray too far, all right?”

  “Never,” she said squeezing his arm before slipping off into the crowd.

  Simon watched her easily glide into a group and join the conversations as if she’d been there all along. She was a marvel. But admiring his wife was not why he was here, he reminded himself, and turned his focus to the doctor. He was in unusually good spirits. His typically dour expression had been enlivened. Perhaps he simply enjoyed being the grand host, but there was a noticeable change in him.

  Other than his mood, the only other thing of note that caught Simon’s attention was the small wound the doctor had on one hand. Word around the Great Hall blamed it on an overzealous patient, but it niggled at Simon.

  It was scant evidence to hang anything other than a prayer on, but it was another potentially damning sign pointing toward the doctor. Due to the violence and frenzied nature of the murders, some
surmised that the killer might have small wounds on his hands, his own knife cutting him as he rushed to butcher his victims.

  For dinner, Simon and Elizabeth had been seated with George, who, Simon had to admit, was far better company than he’d thought he’d be. But however much he’d enjoyed watching the others at their end of the table clutch their pearls over some of the things Roxbury said, it wasn’t getting them closer to their goal. Although, the evening hadn’t been a total loss, Simon thought, as he sipped his drink from a chair by the fireplace in the grand salon. Mrs. Blackwood’s appearance was intriguing.

  Too ill to join them for dinner, she arrived afterward for the entertainment. Wheeled out of the bedroom with the assistance of a nurse and the doctor’s ever-present and overly dutiful valet, Roderick, she smiled at her guests. Her lap covered with a crocheted blanket and her face pinched in a look of chronic discomfort and fatigue, she looked quite elderly, but was apparently no more than forty, ten years the doctor’s junior. Though clearly, she had once been a very beautiful woman.

  The doctor doted on her. For a man who appeared as self-centered and self-aggrandizing as the doctor, it was a shock to see him defer to his wife. If his reverence weren’t apparent enough, the evening’s entertainment certainly was.

  Adelina Patti was arguably one of the world’s great sopranos and, without argument, its most expensive. Although this was a few years past her prime when she commanded a $5,000 a night fee, this private concert must be costing the doctor a bloody mint.

  She began the recital with Violetta’s aria from La Traviata. Her voice was beautiful, like crystal. Simon allowed himself a few indulgent minutes of pleasure. It was one of the perks of time travel he relished the most, to be able to see and hear art that had been lost to the ages. He listened to the aria, his eyes seeking out Elizabeth across the room. She smiled and waved, and then fell back into whatever muttered conversation she and George were having behind her fan. She didn’t share his love of opera, no matter how hard she tried; she always fell asleep.

  When Adelina Patti moved on to the turgidly sentimental popular ballad “The Song that Reached My Heart”, Simon felt free to move on as well.

  He turned his focus away from the show and onto the spectators. Mrs. Blackwood was enraptured. Her husband stood the stalwart at her side as he pompously enjoyed the spectacle.

  Simon moved around the back of the gathered crowd. Behind them another show was going on as footmen quietly went about removing empty glasses and setting out a new tray with port and sherry. A young, pretty maid, no more than fifteen or sixteen came into the room. From the state of her apron and dress she clearly wasn’t a parlor maid or even a house maid, but a scullery.

  To the upper class in England, scullery maids should never be seen, and certainly not during a party. It was a breach of etiquette and if she were found out, she’d be severely punished. Despite that, the girl tiptoed toward the fireplace and Simon realized why. She’d left one of her brushes.

  She crept along the far wall and then stopped in mid-step as she realized he was watching her. He smiled slightly and shook his head, silently promising he would not give her away. She smiled in return and hurried to the hearth, and bent down to pick up her brush. Unfortunately, Simon was not the only one who saw her.

  Roderick, Blackwood’s omnipresent valet, appeared at her side and gripped her arm, pulling her to her feet. The fear in the girl’s face was plain to see. However, it went beyond fear of the usual repercussions for a breach of etiquette. It was something else.

  She looked at Roderick, her face pale. His gaze moved meaningfully to where Blackwood stood and the girl blanched. Simon leaned forward, ready to move in if the girl needed his help. What on earth was going on here?

  Roderick yanked her arm and pulled her toward the door. Blackwood turned just then and frowned deeply in displeasure. The girl struggled one last moment, silently pleading, before Roderick moved her through the door. That was when Simon noticed the change in Blackwood’s expression—from angry to pleased. It was as though he’d just gotten something he wanted very much. Simon realized what that must have been, as Blackwood’s eyes lingered—the girl.

  ~~~

  Simon was oddly quiet on the carriage ride back to their hotel. Not that he was ever a chatterbox, but there was quiet, the content kind, and then there was quiet, the dark brooding kind. This was definitely the latter.

  “Did something happen?” she asked.

  He looked up, pulled from whatever reverie he was in, and started to answer, but closed his mouth with a frown. He looked up at the roof of the cab toward where the driver was sitting and shook his head, silently telling her that it would have to wait until they were away from potentially prying ears.

  Although the cabbie was just for hire and probably wouldn’t have any idea what they were talking about, it was wise to be cautious about what they said and where. After all, she’d overheard a few juicy pieces of gossip herself tonight.

  Happily, it wasn’t long before they reached Brown’s Hotel. Simon helped her down and paid the driver. Elizabeth started up the front steps, but he didn’t follow.

  “How about a walk? I think I could use some air,” he said.

  The air was manure-scented, but honestly, she was so used it now she hardly noticed. She nodded and came back down the steps, winding her arm through the elbow he offered.

  The night was oddly clear, and felt clean and crisp. It had a little nip to it, but between Simon and the fifty layers of clothing she had on, it was not a problem.

  They walked toward Berkeley Square and one of the most elite neighborhoods in all of the West End. Enormous houses like Landsdowne and Devonshire were mini-palaces sheltering in the shadow of the real thing. It was early enough that few other people were out walking, and the only sounds were their footfalls on the sidewalk and the occasional carriage or cart.

  “What happened at the party?” Elizabeth said as they turned up the block toward the park.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Simon Cross is always sure,” she teased.

  He gave a small laugh, then sobered and told her about what he’d seen go on between the maid, the valet and the doctor.

  “You think he beats them?” she asked, feeling the anger growing inside her.

  “Or worse.”

  She swallowed down the bile that rose up at the image of the doctor forcing himself on the girl.

  She trusted Simon’s instincts, but that was a lot to glean from a single look.

  As if hearing her doubts he said, “I know it’s a bit of a stretch, but it was the way she looked at him, and more so, the way he looked at her. It was indecent.”

  “That doesn’t make him a killer though,” Elizabeth said, master of stating the obvious.

  “No, but it does make me wonder. He isn’t having a sexual relationship with his wife. If he were to find that elsewhere—”

  “With the servants?”

  “And others,” Simon prompted her.

  “Prostitutes.”

  He nodded. “It’s possible.”

  “Maybe that’s why Elizabeth Stride was at his office the other day. That didn’t seem to be hospital business.”

  “No,” Simon agreed. “It did not.”

  Elizabeth considered the new information. “Ok, so the doctor might be one of those madonna/whore types. Worships his virtuous and untouched wife, and gets all lecherous with his ’lessers’—the servants and prostitutes.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first.”

  She knew he was right, but the whole notion was disturbed. Then again, so much here was.

  “I learned a little tidbit about the doctor tonight. Guess who went to see him yesterday?”

  Simon arched an eyebrow and waited.

  “None other than our own little Miss Katherine Vale.”

  He was duly surprised by the news. “And how did you find that out?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “George. He’s a worse gossip than any woman I k
now.”

  Simon hmm’d softly.

  “He said that her headaches are getting worse. I didn’t add that it’s probably just the crazy breaking off in there and scrambling everything up.”

  Simon snorted.

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I’m not sure what it gets us, but Vale plus doctor who specializes in crazy, well, it’s something to keep an eye on.”

  “A close eye,” Simon said. “I’ve been wondering if we haven’t paid enough attention to our Miss Vale. I’d be shocked if she weren’t at the crux of whatever changes her old self made to history here.”

  “We’ve been so busy, chasing our tails and missing opportunities,” Elizabeth said, knowing it sounded bitter.

  “It’s frustrating, isn’t it?”

  It was more than that. Elizabeth was a woman of action. She would have come with her own kung-fu grip if she’d had anything to say about it. So far, the only action they’d seen was their own darn fault. And now they had three weeks until the next opportunity. It was maddening.

  Simon must have sensed her anxiety because he tucked his elbow in a bit closer, pulling her toward him. “We have to be patient.”

  “How can you be so calm about it?”

  “You think I’m calm?”

  His equanimity was one of his most infuriating traits. “Yes.”

  Simon pulled up short. “What would have me do? Make him kill faster?”

  Shocked at his sudden temper, Elizabeth leaned away from him. He looked poised to fight, but just as quickly the set of his shoulders softened.

  “I’m sorry,” he said and let out a deep breath before looking up to the heavens for strength. “I hate this. I hate every moment of it. The very thought of having to watch a woman be brutally murdered and do nothing…”

  He stopped and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he’d gathered himself again. “I may appear calm, but I assure you, I am not.”

  Elizabeth felt foolish. Of course, he wasn’t taking this in stride. He was just better at not acting like a jackass about things they couldn’t change.