Time Travel Omnibus Volume 2

by Anthology

  The gaslights and hansom cabs did not.

  “Welcome to the West End of London, heart of the city’s flourishing theater district,” the tour guide announced. Kenneth Ramsey’s bristling red muttonchops and thick walrus mustache fit the era perfectly, as did his formal black attire, white tie, and top hat. A gilded watch chain dangled from his vest pocket. His plummy British accent certainly sounded authentic. “Home to Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Oscar Wilde, and other luminaries of the Victorian stage.”

  His lips barely moved as he subvocalized into the miniaturized microphone concealed in his impeccably knotted silk tie. His spiel was instantly transmitted to tiny receivers discreetly hidden in the ears of the small party of time tourists surrounding him on the sidewalk in front of the legendary Lyceum Theatre. Eager theatergoers dressed to the nines milled past them, necessitating such technological legerdemain. It wouldn’t do for the natives of this bygone age to overhear them.

  Pretty slick, Celeste thought. Timeshares seemed to have thought of everything. Her earpiece itched, however, and she resisted an urge to fiddle with it. She also felt slightly queasy, apparently a routine side effect of temporal dislocation. Ramsey had assured her the timesickness would pass. It had better. I have big plans for this evening, and they don’t involve me puking all over the nineteenth century.

  She contemplated her fellow tourists, who included a middle-aged couple from Ohio, their bored-looking teenage son, and a somewhat nerdy-looking young man wearing a deerstalker cap in emulation of his idol, Sherlock Holmes. All were dressed in formal period attire, provided by Timeshares for a nominal fee. Their package deal included three nights in Victorian England, including meals, accommodations in a luxury hotel, and entertainment. Even as a group excursion, it was a pricy trip, but if everything went according to her plan, it would pay off big time.

  Or so Celeste hoped.

  For now, though, she just needed to play along and pretend to be merely another time-traveling sightseer. A slender woman pushing forty, she found her elaborate Victorian getup less comfortable than her usual sweatpants and T-shirt. Along with the others, she took in the deliciously old-time atmosphere, gawking openly like out of towners. Horse-drawn carriages disgorged a steady stream of elegantly bedecked gentlemen and ladies who braved the drizzly autumn weather for a night at the theater. Flower girls, straight out of My Fair Lady, hawked posies to their betters. Liveried coachmen held open doors. Mist fogged the spacious avenue, adding a nostalgic haze to the scene. The lambent glow of the gaslights shone through fog like fairy nimbuses. Towering marble columns supported the Lyceum’s imposing portico. A hubbub of voices competed with the clop clop of the horse’s hooves. A stocky bearded Irishman stood atop the steps leading to the Lyceum’s grand entrance, fulsomely greeting each dignitary. Celeste realized with a start that it was Bram Stoker, the theater’s acting manager. Had he written Dracula yet? No, that was still nine years away . . .

  “I can’t believe it,” half of the married couple murmured in awe. What was his name again? Brian? Ryan? He hesitantly touched the base of a nearby streetlight, as though expecting it to pop like a soap bubble upon contact. “It’s so real.”

  “It is real,” Ramsey insisted. “This is no theme park or VR simulation. It’s actually November 8, 1888.” He rapped a marble column with his knuckles. “You’re really in London during the reign of Queen Victoria, when the sun never set on the British Empire.” The fading light belied his words. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

  The fanboy in the deerstalker hat raised his hand. “Aren’t the Jack the Ripper murders going on now?” Watery eyes gleamed with excitement. “I know it’s not on the itinerary, but any chance we can squeeze in a trip to Whitechapel?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Moskowitz,” Ramsey replied. “The East End of London is too dangerous at this point in history. Never mind the Ripper; nineteenth-century Whitechapel is a lawless slum where violent crime is commonplace. Maybe someday, if there’s sufficient demand, Timeshares can figure out a way to ensure our clientele’s safety on such an excursion. But for now liability and insurance issues preclude any detours to the bad part of town.”

  “Oh,” Moskowitz said, obviously disappointed. The teenager, whom had visibly perked up at the mention of the grisly murders, slipped back into sullen adolescence. Moskowitz dabbed at a runny nose with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “Darn allergies,” he muttered. “This fog is wreaking havoc with my sinuses.” He blew his nose loudly. “You sure we can’t sneak in just a peek at the Ripper’s hunting grounds? I promise not to sue anybody.”

  “Sorry,” Ramsey demurred. “It’s out of my hands.”

  Celeste repressed a sigh of relief. She had her own plans regarding the Ripper, and she didn’t want any amateur sleuths or murder buffs horning in on them. There was too much at stake. Namely, my career.

  The tour guide went back to hyping tonight’s activities. “Still, if it’s chills and thrills you’re after, I think we can oblige you with some of the fictional variety.” He gestured grandly at the ornate theater. “Tonight we have front row seats to Jekyll and Hyde, starring the great Victorian actor Richard Mansfield. This celebrated production, based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal classic, has been playing to sold-out audiences for months now. Believe me, it took no little effort to secure some tickets, but at Timeshares we spare no expense to make your vacations literally historic.”

  And charge an arm and a leg for it, too, Celeste thought. But it would be worth the expense if she succeeded in what she had really signed onto this tour for. Forget Richard Mansfield, Jekyll and Hyde, and the rest of this whole “Gaslight & Greasepaint” enterprise. She was out to solve one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries.

  Who was Jack the Ripper?

  The show, and Mansfield’s performance, proved entertaining enough. Despite her impatience to get down to business, she had almost been disappointed when the cast took their final curtain calls.

  Almost.

  Big Ben tolled midnight as she gratefully shed her cumbersome Victorian finery in the privacy of the hotel room Timeshares had booked for her at the Carlton. In theory, the rest of the tour party had retired for the night in anticipation of tomorrow’s busy itinerary, which included a matinee showing of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Yeoman of the Guard with the original cast. With any luck, she’d know the Ripper’s identity by then and be fast on her way to fame and fortune.

  Corset, bustle, stays, and petticoats hit the floor. On went the men’s attire she had stowed in a hidden compartment in her luggage. A dark Ulster coat helped disguise her already boyish figure. She tucked her short blond curls under a bowler hat. Chances were it would be easier—not to mention safer—to navigate the sordid back alleys of Whitechapel as a man. And the trousers would be lot easier to run in if something went amiss. Ramsey had not been exaggerating when he’d described the East End as the most dangerous part of London, and she was heading right into its most murderous depths.

  Did she really want to do this?

  Now that the moment was at hand, second thoughts assailed her. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. Her timesickness had passed, just as Ramsey had promised, but her stomach was still tied up in knots. She shivered at the prospect of venturing out into the foggy night on her own.

  What other choice do I have? Sales of her true-crime books had been slipping for years now; royalties and downloads were drying up. Not that it was her fault. Could she help it if there were no truly great murder mysteries in her own time, when most any crime could be solved by matching DNA samples? Where was the drama in that? There were times she wanted to travel back in time just to kick Watson and Crick in their double helixes.

  Thank heaven there were still great crimes—and great criminals—lurking in the past. Jack the Ripper was her ticket back to the top of the bestseller list, provided Timeshares didn’t get wind of what she was up to and pull the plug on tonight’s expedition. Fortunately, she had been able to book the to
ur under her real name, Celeste Jordan, instead of her pen name, Jordan Pinkerton, so as to avoid raising any red flags with the time-travel agency. If all went well, she could return to the twenty-first century with the Ripper’s true identity and no one would be the wiser—until her new book went on sale.

  It was the perfect scheme, as long as she didn’t lose her nerve.

  “No guts, no glory.” She had come too far, geographically and chronologically, to turn back now. Tucking an umbrella under her arm, she took a moment to inspect her disguise in a full-length mirror. “Not bad.” In the murky gaslight and fog, she would probably pass as a man. “Whitechapel, here I come.”

  The East End was even worse than she had imagined. Only a short carriage ride had separated her ritzy accommodations from Whitechapel, yet she might as well as have taken a starship to another world. Celeste had memorized every book ever written about the Ripper and knew just how bad this neighborhood was supposed to be in Queen Victoria’s time, but it was one thing to read about the squalid conditions online, in the comfort of her air-conditioned condo in Seattle, and something else altogether to experience it for real.

  A clammy fog, reeking of smoke and fouler odors, wafted through a daunting labyrinth of grimy streets and alleys. Hundreds of thousands of the city’s poorest and most desperate inhabitants were crowded into a pestilential slum where disease, crime, poverty, and ignorance blighted the lives of anyone unlucky enough to live here. Immigrant families were crammed into overcrowded tenements and sweatshops. Doss-houses offered flea-infested cots to homeless wretches for just a few pennies a night. Raucous laughter, tinny music, and angry voices poured out of the pubs and brothels that proliferated on nearly every block. Gin was mother’s milk in these parts, anesthetizing the hopeless populace from the brutish reality of their short, miserable lives. A sickening effluvia filled the gutters. The swirling miasma left every surface greasy to the touch. Celeste gagged on the smell.

  How could people live like this?

  A door banged open behind her, and a drunken brawl spilled into the streets. Celeste scurried away, her heart pounding louder than Big Ben. She clutched her bumbershoot to her chest. All at once, she regretted leaving her emergency locator beacon back at the hotel. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, though; the last thing she wanted was for Timeshares to yank her back to her own era before she was finished here. What if Ramsey or someone else noticed that she wasn’t where she belonged?

  You don’t need the locator, she thought. You know what you’re doing.

  Nevertheless, as she hurried through the dimly lit maze of streets and alleys, doubts chased after her. Maybe she should have gone for Lizzie Borden instead? Fall River, Massachusetts, would have been cleaner and a lot less intimidating. But how would she have explained to Timeshares why she wanted to visit Fall River in the summer of 1892? Their lawyers would surely have vetoed any attempt to get the real scoop on an ax murderer . . .

  Nope, Jack the Ripper it was. I’ll be fine, she thought, as long as I stick to the plan.

  “Oi, guvnor! ’Ow’s about it?”

  Celeste nearly jumped out of her skin as a filthy figure suddenly accosted her from the shadows. The light from a pub’s frosted-glass window exposed a haggard woman wearing a ratty shawl over a rumpled brown frock that smelled like it hadn’t been washed since the Queen’s Jubilee the year before. Greasy black hair, liberally streaked with gray, was piled beneath a dilapidated straw bonnet. Sunken eyes winked at her. A toothless smile made Celeste’s skin crawl. The woman’s breath reeked of gin.

  “Er, no, thank you.” Celeste recoiled from the grotesque apparition, who was obviously one of the countless prostitutes infesting Whitechapel in this era. According to her research, the East End was home to at least twelve hundred so-called daughters of joy. It was upon women like this, selling themselves for shillings just to stay alive, that the Ripper had preyed. Celeste hadn’t expected to have to fend one off herself.

  Apparently, there were drawbacks to disguising herself as a man.

  She tried to hurry away, but the rancid hooker would not take no for an answer. “Don’t be like that, laddie.” The harlot blocked her path. “Old Nellie knows what you need.” Rheumy eyes squinted at Celeste. “Only a shilling for a pretty young boy like yourself.”

  “Leave me alone, please,” Celeste pleaded, lowering her voice to sound more masculine. She wasn’t into girls herself, but even if she had swung that way, she wouldn’t have been remotely tempted by Nellie’s offer. The decrepit old bag was about as sexy as a leper. Celeste tightened her grip on her umbrella. “I’m not interested . . . really!”

  “Half a shilling!” Nellie persisted. “A bargain.”

  Lifting her skirts, she grabbed at Celeste’s trousers.

  “Don’t touch me!” Celeste yelped. Panicked, she poked Nellie in the gut with the point of her bumbershoot. Nervous fingers pressed a button concealed in the grip, activating the high-voltage stun baton built into the umbrella. A bright blue spark jolted Nellie, who dropped onto the cobblestones, twitching and convulsing, before curling up into a fetal position. A low moan escaped her lips.

  Yikes! Celeste yanked back the umbrella. Guilt stabbed her as she contemplated the downed prostitute. She had brought the stun umbrella with her for her own protection, but maybe she had overreacted a little. I didn’t want to zap her, but she wouldn’t leave me alone!

  Thankfully, Nellie still appeared to be breathing. Celeste glanced around nervously, afraid that someone might have seen her stun the old woman. Bobbies and plainclothesmen were swarming Whitechapel these days in hopes of snaring the elusive Ripper, but nobody seemed to have observed her encounter with Nellie. She doubted that the woman’s sprawled form would attract much attention either. What was one more inebriated whore passed out in the street?

  Nevertheless, she made tracks toward Dorset Street, leaving Nellie behind. A bobby at the corner nodded as she passed. Celeste felt a little safer knowing that the police were out in force tonight, even though their attempts to catch the Ripper were doomed to failure. Scotland Yard had been hunting Jack since August, but at least four women had been butchered nonetheless. Despite their best efforts, the police were no closer to solving the mystery than they had been when the murders began.

  But Celeste had an advantage over the frustrated coppers. She knew exactly when and where the Ripper was going to strike next.

  Miller’s Court was an enclosed yard just off Dorset Street, accessible via an arched gateway. Mary Jane Kelly, the Ripper’s last known victim, lodged in a one-room apartment on the ground floor of a rooming house that catered almost exclusively to prostitutes. Whitewashed brick walls hemmed in Miller’s Court, which looked more like an alley than a court. A broken window was left over from an ugly fight between Mary and the man she lived with, Joseph Barnett, who had moved out more than a week ago, perhaps because Mary had starting working the streets again. A thin muslin curtain hid the interior of the room from view. A number by the door identified the address as number 13. The unlucky number would certainly prove so for Mary Kelly. The Ripper had taken his time with her . . .

  The infamous locale looked just as Celeste had imagined it. Miller’s Court had been (would be?) demolished in 1920 and renovated several times since. Celeste still remembered how disappointed she’d been when she had first visited this neighborhood in her own time; it had been all office buildings, parking garages, and warehouses. A modern loading dock had been built over the site of Mary Jane Kelly’s grisly demise. All traces of the gaslight horror had been swept away and gentrified out of existence.

  But not here, not now. Celeste had hardly been able to contain her excitement when she’d discovered that the “Gaslight & Greasepaint” tour coincided with one of the Ripper murders. Talk about a lucky break! She had been prepared to sneak away from the tour and hole up somewhere, maybe for days, until the closest convenient killing came along, but, as it turned out, the timing couldn’t have better. It was almost as th
ough Timeshares had gone out of its way to make things easy for her.

  She made a mental note to thank them in the acknowledgments.

  Big Ben tolled one A.M. in the distance. Celeste breathed a sigh of relief. In theory, she should be in plenty of time to catch Jack the Ripper in the act. The coroner had placed Mary Kelly’s time of death at around four in the morning, but having little faith in nineteenth-century forensics, Celeste had allowed herself plenty of leeway, just in case the murder had taken place earlier than anyone had realized. She secreted herself in a shadowy doorway facing the entrance to number 13 and popped in a pair of night vision contact lenses. The lenses gave the scene an unearthly green glow, but they would allow her to observe the proceedings unseen. Miller’s Court was dark and unlit, making it ideal for both her and Jack the Ripper.

  The rain started up again, and she took shelter beneath the doorframe. The winter chill began to seep into her bones, and she hugged herself to keep warm. She was in for a long, cold vigil, but she couldn’t complain. Mary Jane Kelly was going to have a worse night.

  Much worse.

  At the moment, the doomed prostitute was still alive. Smoke rose from the chimney of number 13. Candlelight escaped the broken window. Celeste could hear Mary singing inside her pitiful hovel, sounding tipsy and off-key. An Irish accent betrayed her roots in County Limerick. Celeste couldn’t quite make out the words, but Mary’s neighbors would later testify that she had been singing “A Violet I Plucked from My Mother’s Grave” well after midnight.

  She was only twenty-four years old.

  A man’s voice joined in the singing, and a chill went down Celeste’s spine as she realized that Mary might already be entertaining her killer. Jack the Ripper was only a few yards away, on the other side of a bolted wooden door.

  Who are you? Celeste wondered. Her brain ran through the usual list of suspects. Sir William Gull, the Queen’s physician? The celebrated painter Walter Sickert? Montague Druitt, the suicidal lawyer? Francis Tumblety, the quack American physician? John Pizer, a.k.a. “Leather Apron”? Prince Albert Victor, the Queen’s grandson? More than a century of Ripperology had produced a plethora of theories and suspects, but no definitive answers.