Another Time, Another Place

by Jodi Taylor

  He gazed fondly at the magnificent specimen. ‘They don’t plant them like this any more. Modern planes are smaller and less long-lived. Most of the originals succumbed to plane tree wilt in the 20th century but there are a few still left.’ He sighed. ‘I wonder if this one will make it.’

  ‘Number Six is on the right,’ I said quietly and he nodded, still staring at the tree, presumably willing it to survive the centuries.

  Right from the moment we exited the pod we’d agreed to assume there would be eyes everywhere. I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover Winterman and Feeney had a network of young boys watching the surrounding streets, all ready to sound the alarm should anyone suspicious come into view, which was why we’d parked so far away. There wasn’t a soul in sight on this windy afternoon but I was sure they’d be there somewhere, and who knew what eyes lurked behind those gleaming windows?

  We moved smoothly into character, supposedly pausing to confer over who would take left and who would take right side of the square but we’d already agreed right would be me. Possibly over-optimistically, we’d decided a woman would be less likely to arouse suspicion. Markham conceded that might actually be true right up until the moment they met the woman in question.

  Our cover was that we were collecting for charity. I would go in openly through the front door. Markham was to nip round the back and enter by whatever orifice he could find that would accommodate him. There had been vigorous discussion on which charity we would be representing and we’d finally gone with Seamen’s Missions which seemed to be a fairly popular and non-controversial fundraising initiative. My choice of Women’s Suffrage was deemed to be too inflammatory.

  ‘Another Fun Fact,’ said Markham, labouring under the misapprehension that I cared. ‘The first collection tin appeared in the temple of Jerusalem and religions have been separating the faithful from their dosh ever since.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I said, without any hope that he actually would.

  ‘Samuel Pepys mentioned collection tins in his diary. They were collecting to rebuild London after the Great Fire. He banged on about what a nuisance they were.’

  ‘Well, there’s a coincidence.’

  ‘The RNLI started their street collections in 1891 and—’

  Sometimes you just have to be brutal. ‘Will you shut up about collecting tins. We don’t have any so it’s irrelevant. We’re collecting subscriptions.’

  ‘I thought you’d be interested,’ he said, hurt.

  ‘Straighten your cravat. You look like a street urchin.’

  He wrenched at the offending article of clothing, making things slightly worse, but at least it stemmed the flow of Fun Facts. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Perfect. Are you ready?’

  We wished each other luck and split up. He moved left to knock at the first house.

  The first door on my right, Number Eight, was opened by a portly butler. I summoned all the confidence engendered by my smart outfit and subscription book, greeted him brightly and asked for the mistress of the house. Obviously wise to the ways of me and my kind, he bade me wait in the hall, relieved me of my subscription book and disappeared through a door to my right.

  I had been offered a seat but I was too keyed up so I wandered around, admiring the paintings on the wall. Not that there was much to admire – there was the usual depressing stuff – Caledonian landscapes where the most prominent feature was mud, and still lifes (lives?) of bowls of fruit and dead pheasants tossed carelessly across highly polished tables. The Victorians had some very strange habits. Overheated brains, I suspected, caused by wearing all those too-tight clothes and staring at dismal landscapes.

  Before I had time to develop any of my own strange habits, the butler returned with my subscription book on a tray, open at the appropriate page. It would appear that Mrs Tregaskes, obviously unwilling to be outdone by Lady Ryde, would contribute one guinea.

  I retrieved my book, asked the butler to convey my thanks to his mistress and allowed myself to be ushered back down the steps to the pavement.

  On the other side, Markham was just mounting the steps to Number Two. He was slightly ahead of me. I reminded myself this was not a race.

  I plied the knocker on Number Seven. A very smart maid answered. The mistress wasn’t in, she said, tossing the ribbons on her lacy mob cap, but the master was available. Telling myself this would be good practice, I stepped over the threshold and was shown into some kind of parlour.

  Ten minutes later I was no longer surprised the mistress was out. If she had any sense, she was halfway to a colony by now. I personally would have worked my passage. Good God, Horace Leyton, as he introduced himself, could bore for England. I listened politely and attentively to various anecdotes he mistakenly thought demonstrated his intelligence and business acumen. In my new role as someone labouring for the good of mankind, I forbore to enlighten him, but don’t think it wasn’t a struggle. He moved smoothly into relating the ultimate fate of some fellow who’d tried to cheat him over a horse and I whiled away the time staring at the portrait of a very pretty dark-haired woman over the mantel. The wisely absent Mrs Leyton, I assumed.

  He went on and on. By now I was panicking that Markham would get to the back of Number Six before I got to the front, so, in desperation, I thrust my subscription book under his nose and smiled winningly.

  He scribbled in my book, inviting me to come and look over his shoulder as he did so. I declined that particular treat because the brandy fumes would probably have knocked me over, rang the bell myself to summon the maid, whipped my book out of his hands as soon as she entered and whisked myself out of the door so rapidly that I practically trod on her heels in my efforts to get away.

  Seemingly unsurprised at my determination to leave as quickly as possible, she opened the front door, wished me a very good afternoon and I was out into the much-needed fresh air.

  Good grief – so far, I’d visited two houses. In one I’d been left in the hall like an old umbrella and in the second I’d had some ghastly overweight drone with halitosis boring me to death. And the next house held a couple of murderers, drug dealers, traffickers and arsonists so the day wasn’t going to get any better. I’d envisaged spending the afternoon being given tea by little old ladies in fingerless mittens while fat cats purred in front of the fire and that hadn’t happened at all. I wondered how Markham was faring. With his luck he’d be up to his withers in little old ladies and was, at this very moment, scarfing down fairy cakes as fast as he could go.

  The wind still blew. Straightening my hat with its irritating feather, I squared my shoulders and approached the House of Doom. The very epitome of a middle-class Victorian matron with a social conscience and a lot of time on her hands.

  From the outside there was nothing to distinguish it from its neighbours. The steps were neatly swept, the windows clean, and the brass door handle and knocker gleamed. A fine example of Victorian respectability. I had no doubt the occupants would appear to be – on the surface at least – pillars of the community. The house would be impeccably furnished, and presided over by a traditional butler and any number of starched housemaids.

  I don’t know anyone who gets things as wrong as me. The door was opened by Jack Feeney himself which surprised me so much I was temporarily speechless. I knew it was him immediately. Pennyroyal’s staff work was impeccable. I’d had a full description and images of both our targets. Feeney – late forties. Dark, curly hair and brown eyes. Around five foot ten. Slim build. Winterman much older. In his sixties. Grey-haired. A little stooped. The tips of two fingers were missing – an old gangland punishment, apparently. Winterman had been the leader but looking now at the man standing before me, I wouldn’t mind betting Feeney was the more dangerous of the two. He’d been the enforcer, with everything that entailed. I looked at the person regarding me with polite enquiry, while my hindbrain shouted to turn around and walk away because we
could always come at this from another direction.

  I smiled brightly. ‘Good afternoon. I wonder if I might speak with the lady of the house.’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘Alas, madam, it is of continuing regret to me that there is no lady of the house.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. He wasn’t dressed as a servant so I couldn’t ask to see his master and I wasn’t supposed to know their names.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, crestfallen. ‘My name is Mrs Farrell and I am collecting subscriptions on behalf of the Seamen’s Mission in Rotherhithe. They do such good work there. I have been collecting in your square and everyone has been very generous. I wondered . . .’

  I let my voice tail away and looked at him.

  He looked me up and down in a way that Mrs Farrell didn’t much care for but for which Dr Maxwell would give him a good kicking at the first opportunity.

  And then I got the cheeky grin. The one I suspected had been the last thing ever seen by anyone who crossed him. He held the door open wider.

  ‘Won’t you come in, madam. Mr W is always busy at this time of day but perhaps I can be of assistance.’

  I allowed myself to hesitate. ‘Well, if there is no mistress on the premises, perhaps I should return with my companion . . .’

  As I spoke, a nearby church clock struck four. ‘Ah,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Surely you can put aside your scruples for a few minutes, Mrs Farrell. I know how you ladies like your tea. Don’t make me drink mine alone.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I must admit . . . I do enjoy a cup of tea around about now.’

  ‘As do we all, madam. As do we all.’

  ‘Well,’ I said again, and with the air of one crossing a social Rubicon, stepped over the threshold. The door closed behind me.

  The hall was very cold and very dark. Small, intricately patterned black and white tiles on the floor added to the gloom and induced a slight sense of vertigo.

  ‘This way, Mrs Farrell,’ he said, gesturing me towards a closed door on the left. ‘There’s a nice fire in the parlour.’

  I stood my ground. I was Mrs Farrell, do-gooder and independent woman, solid middle class and respectable, with all the social invincibility that entailed. ‘I regret, sir, you have the advantage of me.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course. Jack Feeney at your service, madam.’

  I said haughtily, ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Feeney,’ and preceded him into a large room overlooking the street. A small fire burned in the grate but it wasn’t much warmer here than in the hall.

  ‘Do sit down, Mrs Farrell.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you but I mustn’t linger. Will Mr . . .’ My lips formed around the first syllable of Winterman when I suddenly realised I wasn’t supposed to know his name. I was going to have to keep my wits about me and be a lot more careful. ‘Will Mr W be joining us?’

  He crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell, saying cheerfully, ‘I shouldn’t think so, madam. He’s always occupied during the afternoons. Now – do draw closer to the fire. It’s a trifle nippy this afternoon.’

  I have to say, he had the mannerisms off pat. A Victorian gentleman with a roguish smile and a very faint brogue. So faint that you had to listen hard for it, but the tantalising trace was there. I wondered if he’d had lessons on how to behave in this century. It seemed likely. Victorian society was mannered and very rigid. Feeney and Winterman might not care about that but unless they wanted to stand out like tits on a bull – which they obviously didn’t – full integration would be important. And they couldn’t pick it up as they went along. They’d have to arrive fully briefed. Was there actually an organisation dedicated to helping criminals conceal themselves in time? That might be a thought to take back to Pennyroyal. A useful avenue of enquiry for the future. Or, knowing him, another lucrative area for him and Lady Amelia to move into.

  I didn’t want to sit down so I drew closer to the fire and held out my hands. As I did so, the door opened and two maids entered. I stiffened. I’m not wise in the ways of housemaids – you want Markham for that. Trust me, housemaids love him – but I’m pretty sure they don’t usually travel in a pack. Two stood in the doorway with an older woman – the cook, perhaps – at their shoulders. There was something in the way they waited . . .

  None of them spoke. Their eyes flickered around the room. No one looked directly at Feeney. They stood just inside the room, waiting with their hands behind their backs, eyes on the carpet.

  Mr Feeney greeted them jovially and demanded tea – quick as they could, please.

  Silently they bobbed curtseys and backed from the room. But not before I had noticed a fading bruise on the taller one’s cheek. And the other one appeared to have some sort of bandage on her wrist. I could just see it peeping from under her cuff. I began to have an inkling of what sort of house this was.

  Feeney was smiling at me from the other side of the fireplace. A sensible woman would march from the room, let herself out of the house, meet her colleague on the pavement outside, go down the pub and rethink the whole situation.

  I smiled back, sat down, settled my muff on my lap, pulled off my gloves and looked around the room. Just a silly woman so armoured in her own complacency she couldn’t see what was under her nose. Sometimes I can do that without even trying.

  The house was utterly silent. Whatever Mr W was up to upstairs, he was doing it very quietly. That was a thought – how likely was it that the doors had been soundproofed?

  I decided to take control. Pulling out my little book, I said brightly, ‘Well, Mr Feeney. How much can I put you down for?’

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure what would be appropriate for such a fine lady as yourself,’ and I don’t think he was talking about the subscription.

  I passed over my book. ‘Perhaps it would be helpful to see what I’ve raised so far.’

  He took the book and pretended to flip through the pages.

  ‘Ah, yes. I see you squeezed something from that windbag Leyton next door.’

  ‘He was very generous.’

  ‘And the lady of the house?’

  ‘Sadly, his wife was not at home. I shall return another time, perhaps.’

  He gave a crack of laughter. ‘I can save you the trip, my dear. She’s upstairs at this very moment. Having tea with Mr W.’

  It took a moment for his words to register and then my stomach turned over. There could be no good reason for Mrs Leyton to be upstairs. What was going on here? I remembered Horace Leyton, who, despite his drunken bragging, was, I suspected, a complete idiot. Had he done something to place himself in the power of these two? Debt? Was he gay? Something unforgiveable by the standards of the day, anyway. Was the contemptible worm using his wife to keep his neighbours quiet? I swallowed hard.

  And what should I do? To linger would surely arouse his suspicions. But I couldn’t leave.

  I fell back on social protocol. I pretended I was royalty. They never hear impertinence and neither should I. I smiled a bright, impervious smile and waited.

  In films and fiction, the heroine – who is always madly attractive but doesn’t know it because, presumably, she doesn’t know how to use a mirror properly – is, sooner or later, placed in a position where she has to make herself attractive and . . . flirt. The victim is always completely fooled by this, makes his move and the rescue team leap in and rescue her before her virgo is no longer intacta. I could see all sorts of problems with this scenario. However . . .

  I stuffed my hands in my muff, took a firm hold on my pepper spray, looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘As I look forward to tea with you, Mr Feeney.’

  Well – that gave him something to think about. I’d almost put him off-balance. He looked at me speculatively and I could feel my heartbeat begin to pick up. God knows how that moment would have ended but then, thank God, the tea arrived.

 
I’ve never been so pleased to see a teapot in all my life because this man was not only more intelligent than either Markham or I had given him credit for, but he was considerably creepier as well.

  I needed to keep him occupied while Markham broke in and found his way upstairs to deal with Mr W, and a teapot would be perfect. With the added bonus of being a useful weapon, should it come to that. I could either bludgeon or scald him. Or both. Having rendered him hors de combat I could then zap the bugger senseless, signal through the window and assist Pennyroyal in getting him into the carriage. Markham would have located Mr W – whose attention, if Feeney was to be believed, would be elsewhere, which could prove useful – and dealt with him. And possibly Mrs Leyton from next door as well – if she really was here and Feeney hadn’t just said it to see how I would react. I wouldn’t put it past him. He struck me as the sort of person who plays with his victims first. Like a pitiless cat.

  We would also have to avoid the ten billion servants with which Victorian households were packed; although, given what I’d seen so far, I wouldn’t mind betting Feeney’s staff would hold the doors open for us. There had been fear – real fear – in their eyes. This man smiled and smiled but inside he was black and stinking to his core.

  He was regarding me now. ‘Mrs Farrell?’

  ‘I’m so sorry – I was thinking of something else. A bad habit of mine. Did you speak?’

  ‘I wondered if you would like to pour.’

  ‘Of course.’

  We’d discussed drugging our targets and reluctantly decided against it. We’d expected to find them together and response times sometimes vary wildly between individuals. Unless they both passed out at the same moment which was most unlikely, it could be too risky. I never thought I’d say this but the Time Police way – zapping and zipping – is usually the best approach.

  I was regretting our decision now, however. It would have been so easy to lift the lid, stir the pot, drop in a little something that would almost certainly make my afternoon proceed more smoothly, and watch him fall face down into the fireplace.