Margo shook Dominica’s hand, wondering what, exactly, the woman wanted from her. Besides the scoop of the century, of course. “Thank you,” she managed, “that’s very gracious, Ms. Nosette.”
“Dominica, please. And you’ll have to excuse my scapegrace partner. Guy’s manners are atrocious.”
Pendergast broke into a grin. “Delighted, m’dear, can’t tell you how delighted I am to be touring with the famous Margo Smith.”
“Oh, but I’m not famous.”
He winked, rolling a sidewise glance at his partner. “Not yet, m’dear, but if I know Minnie, your name will be a household word by tea time.”
Margo hadn’t expected reporters to notice her, not yet, anyway, not until she’d really proved herself as an independent scout. All of which left her floundering slightly as Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast and, God help her, Shahdi Feroz, waited for her response. What would Kit want me to do? To say? He hates reporters, I know that, but he’s never said anything about what I should do if they talk to me . . .
Fortunately, Doug Tanglewood, another of the guides for the Ripper Watch tour, arrived on the scene looking nine feet tall in an elegant frock coat and top hat. “Ah, Miss Smith, I’m so glad you’re here. You’ve brought the check-in list? And the baggage manifests well in hand, I see. Ladies, gentlemen, Miss Smith is, indeed, a time scout in training. And since we will be joining her fiancé in London, I’m certain she would appreciate your utmost courtesy to her as a lady of means and substance.”
Guy Pendergast said in dismay, “Fiancé? Oh, bloody hell!” and gave a theatrical groan that drew chuckles from several nearby male tourists. Doug Tanglewood smiled. “And if you would excuse us, we have rather a great deal to accomplish before departure.”
Doug nodded politely and drew Margo over toward the baggage, then said in a low voice, “Be on your guard against those two, Miss Smith. Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast are notorious, with a reputation that I do not approve of in the slightest. But they had enough influence in the right circles to be added to the team, so we’re stranded with them.”
“They were very polite,” she pointed out.
Tanglewood frowned. “I’m certain they were. They are very good at what they do. Just bear this firmly in mind. What they do is pry into other people’s lives in order to report the sordid details to the world. Remember that, and there’s no harm done. Now, have you seen Kit? He’s waiting to see you off.”
Margo’s irritation fled. “Oh, where?”
“Across that way, at the barricade. Go along, then, and say goodbye. I’ll take over from here.”
She fled toward her grandfather, who’d managed to secure a vantage point next to the velvet barricade ropes. “Can you believe it? Eight minutes! Just eight more minutes and then, wow! Three and a half months in London! Three and a half very hard months,” she added hastily at the beginnings of a stern glower in her world-famous grandfather’s eyes.
Kit kept scowling, but she’d learned to understand those ferocious scowls during the past several months. They concealed genuine fear for her, trying to tackle this career when there was so much to be learned and so very much that could go wrong, even on a short and relatively safe tour. Kit ruffled her hair, disarranging her stylish hat in the process. “Keep that in mind, Imp. Do you by any chance remember the first rule of surviving a dangerous encounter on the streets?”
Her face went hot, given her recent lapses in attention, but she shot back the answer promptly enough. “Sure do! Don’t get into it in the first place. Keep your eyes and ears open and avoid anything that even remotely smells like trouble. And if trouble does break, run like hel—eck.” She really was trying to watch her language. Ladies in Victorian London did not swear. Women did, all the time; ladies, never.
Kit chucked her gently under the chin. “That’s my girl. Promise me, Margo, that you’ll watch your back in Whitechapel. What you ran into before, in the Seven Dials, is going to look like a picnic, compared with the Ripper terror. That will blow the East End apart.”
She bit her lower lip. “I know. I won’t lie,” she said in a sudden rush, realizing it was true and not wanting to leave her grandfather with the impression that she was reckless or foolhardy—at least, not any longer. “I’m scared. What we’re walking into . . . The Ripper’s victims weren’t the only women murdered in London’s East End during the next three months. And I can only guess what it’s going to be like when the vigilance committees start patrolling the streets and London’s women start arming themselves out of sheer terror.”
“Those who could afford it,” Kit nodded solemnly. “Going armed in that kind of explosive atmosphere is a damned fine idea, actually, so long as you keep your wits and remember your training.”
Margo’s own gun, a little top-break revolver, was fully loaded and tucked neatly into her dress pocket, in a specially designed holster Connie Logan had made for her. After her first, disastrous visit to London’s East End with this pistol, Margo had drilled with it until she could load and shoot it blindfolded in her sleep. She just hoped she didn’t need to use it, ever.
Far overhead, the station’s public address system crackled to life. “Your attention please. Gate Two is due to cycle in two minutes. All departures . . .”
“Well,” Margo said awkwardly, “I guess this is it. I’ve got to go help Doug Tanglewood herd that bunch through the gate.”
Kit smiled. “You’ll do fine, Imp. If you don’t, I’ll kick your bustled backside up time so fast, it’ll make your head swim!”
“Hah! You and what army?”
Kit’s world-famous jack-o-lantern grin blazed down at her. “Margo, honey, I am an army. Or have you forgotten your last Aikido lesson?”
Margo just groaned. She still had the bruises. “You’re mean and horrible and nasty. How come I love you?”
Kit laughed, then leaned over the barricade to give her a hug. “Because you’re as crazy as I am, that’s why.” He added in a sudden, fierce whisper, “Take care of yourself!”
Margo hugged him tight and gave him a swift kiss on one lean, weathered cheek. “Promise.”
Kit’s eyes were just a hint too bright, despite the now-familiar scowl. “Off with you, then. I’ll be waiting to test you on everything you’ve learned when you get back.”
“Oh, God . . .” But she was laughing as she took her leave and found Douglas Tanglewood and their charges. When the Britannia Gate finally rumbled open and Margo started up the long flight of metal stairs, her computerized scout’s log and ATLS slung over her shoulder in a carpet bag, Margo’s heart was pounding as fast as the butterflies swooping and circling through her stomach. Three and a half months of Ripper Watch Tour wasn’t exactly scouting . . . but solving the most famous serial murder of all time was just about the next best thing. She was going to make Kit proud of her, if it was the last thing she ever did. Frankly, she could hardly wait to get started!
Chapter Six
Polly Nichols needed a drink.
It’d been nearly seven hours since her last glass of gin and she was beginning to shake, she needed another so badly. There was no money in her pockets, either, to buy more. Worse, trade had been miserably slow all day, everywhere from the Tower north to Spitalfields Market and east to the Isle of Dogs. Not one lousy whoreson during the whole long day had been willing to pay for the price of a single glass of gin to calm her shaking nerves. She hadn’t much left to sell, either, or pawn, for that matter.
Polly wore cheap, spring-sided men’s boots with steel-tipped heels, which might’ve been worth something to a pawn broker, had she not cut back the uppers to fit her small legs and feet. Worse, without boots, she could not continue to ply her trade. With rain falling nearly every day and an unnatural chill turning the season cold and miserable, she’d catch her death in no time without proper boots to keep her feet warm and dry.
But, God, how she needed a drink . . .
Maybe she could sell her little broken mirror. Any mirror was a
valuable commodity in a doss house—which made Polly reluctant to give it up. For a woman in her business, a mirror was an important professional tool. She frowned. What else might she be able to sell? Her pockets were all but empty as she felt through them. The mirror . . . her comb . . . and a crackle of paper. The letters! Her fingers trembled slightly as she withdrew the carefully folded sheets of foolscap. That miserable little puff, Morgan, had lied to her about these letters. There was no name on the paper, other than a signature. She suspected she could figure out who the letter-writer was if she could only get the letters translated from Welsh into English. A translation would make Polly a rich woman. But that wouldn’t get her a drink right now.
Well, she could always sell some of the letters, couldn’t she? With the agreement that as soon as they found out the identity of the author, they would share the spoils between them. Or, if Polly found out quickly enough, she might simply buy them back by saying she’d had them translated and Morgan had lied to her and the letters were worthless. Yes, that was what she would do. Sell three of the four now, to get her gin money, then get them back with a lie and figure out who to blackmail with the whole set of four. But who to convince to buy them in the first place?
It must be someone as desperate for money as herself, to buy into the scheme. But it couldn’t be anyone like an ordinary pawn broker. No, it had to be someone she could trust, someone who would trust her. That left one of a few friends she had made on the streets. Which meant she wouldn’t be able to get much up front. But then, Polly didn’t need much right now, just enough to buy herself a few glasses of gin and a bed for a night or two. She could always get the letters back the moment she had money from her next paying customer, if it came to that.
The decision as to which of her friends to approach was made for her when Polly saw Annie Chapman walking down Whitechapel Road. Polly broke into a broad smile. Annie Chapman was a prostitute, same as herself, and certainly needed money. Dark Annie ought to buy into a blackmail scheme, all right. Annie was seriously ill, although to look at her, a body wouldn’t guess it. But she was dying slowly of a lung and brain ailment which had put her into workhouse infirmaries occasionally and siphoned much of what she earned on the streets for medicines.
Yes, Annie ought to be quite interested in making a great deal of money quickly.
“Well, if it isn’t Annie Chapman!” she said with a bright smile.
The other woman was very small, barely five feet tall, but stoutly built, with pallid skin and wide blue eyes and beautiful teeth that Polly, herself, would have given much to be able to flash at a customer when she smiled. Annie’s dark brown hair was wavy and had probably been lustrous before her illness had struck. Her nose was too thick for beauty and at forty-five she was past her best years, but she was a steady little individual, meeting life quietly and trying to hold on in the face of overwhelming poverty, too little to eat, and an illness that sapped her strength and left her moving slowly when she was able to walk at all.
Annie Chapman smiled, genuinely pleased by the greeting. “Polly, how are you?”
“Oh, I’m good, Annie, I’m good. I’d be better if I ‘ad a gin or two, eh?”
The two women chuckled for a moment. Annie was not the drinker Polly was, but the other woman enjoyed her rum, when there was enough money to be spared for it, same as most other women walking these dismal streets.
“Say, Annie, ‘ow’s your ‘ealth been these past few weeks?”
The other woman’s eyes darkened. “Not good,” she said quietly, with a hoarse rasp in her voice. “It’s this rain and cold. Makes my lungs ache, so it’s hard to breathe.” She sounded like it hurt her to breathe.
“I’d imagine a good bit more money would ‘elp, eh? Maybe even enough to take you someplace warm and dry, right out o’ London?”
“Daft, are you, love?” Annie laughed, not unkindly. “Now, just tell me Polly, how would I get that sort of money?”
Polly winked and leaned close. “Well, as it ‘appens I just might be set to come into a small fortune, y’see. And I might be willin’ to share it.” She showed Annie the letters in her pocket and explained her scheme—and let on like she knew who the author was and was only willing to share the money because she was totally broke, herself, and needed a bed for the night. When she finished her proposition, Annie glared at her. “But Polly! That’s blackmail!” The anger in the other woman’s eyes and rasping voice astonished Polly.
She drew herself up defensively. “An’ if it is? Bloke should ‘ave thought of that before ‘e went about dippin’ ‘is Hampton into a bloke’s arse’ole! Besides, Annie, this ‘ere bastard’s rich as sin. And what’ve you got, eh? A dead ‘usband and a sickness eatin’ away at you, ‘til you can’t ‘ardly stand up. If we went to a magistrate, this ‘ere bloke would go t’prison. I’m not talkin’ about ‘urting a decent sort of chap, I’m talkin’ about makin’ a right depraved bastard pay for ‘is crimes against God an’ nature. An’ ‘ow better should ‘e pay, than to ‘elp a sick woman? I ask you that, Annie Chapman, ‘ow better to pay for ‘is sins than to ‘elp a woman ‘oo needs it most? Think of it, Annie. Enough money t’go someplace where it don’t rain ‘alf the year an’ the fogs don’t make it near impossible to breathe of a night. Someplace warm, even in winter. A decent ‘ouse wiv a roof over and enough to eat, so’s you aren’t weak all the time, wot lets the sickness gets a better grip than ever. Annie, think of it, enough money to pay a real doctor an’ get the sort of medicines rich folk ‘ave . . .”
Annie’s expression had crumpled. Tears filled her eyes. “You’re right,” she whispered. “Isn’t my fault I’m sick. Not my fault this nasty chap went out and seduced a half-grown boy, either. God, to have enough money for real medicine. A warm place to live . . .” She coughed, swaying weakly. Misery and longing ploughed deep gullies into her face.
Polly patted her shoulder. “That’s right, Annie. I’ll share wiv you. There’s four letters. You take three of ‘em. All I need’s enough money to pay me doss ‘ouse for a few nights. Can you spare that much, Annie? A few pence for now . . . and a lifetime of medicine and rest in warm beds, after?”
Annie was searching through her pockets. “I’ve got to have enough for my own doss house tonight,” she muttered, digging out a few coins. “I’ve had some luck today, though. Made enough money to pay for almost a week’s lodging. Here.” She gave Polly a shilling. “That’s fourpence a letter. Is it enough?” she asked anxiously.
Polly Nichols had to work hard not to snatch the shilling out of Annie’s hand. She was looking at enough money to buy four brimming glassfuls of gin. “Oh, Annie, that’s a gracious plenty.” She accepted the shilling and handed over three of her precious letters. “An’ ‘ere you are, luv, three tickets to the life you deserve.”
Annie actually hugged her.
Polly flushed and muttered, “I’ll not forget this, Annie. An’ we’ll send the letter to this nasty Mr. Eddy together, eh? Tomorrow, Annie. Meet me at the Britannia pub tomorrow an’ we’ll compose a lovely letter to Mr. Eddy an’ send it off. You got a better education than I ‘ave, you can write it out all posh, like, eh?”
By tomorrow she would have found someone to translate her remaining letter for her and be able to keep that promise. And she just might let Annie keep one of the letters, after all, rather than buying them all back.
Annie smiled at her, eyes swimming with gratitude. “You’re a grand friend, Polly Nichols. God bless you.”
They said their goodbyes, Annie tucking three of the letters into her pockets while Polly pocketed the remaining letter and her precious shilling. As they went their separate ways, Polly smiled widely. Then she headed for the nearest public house as fast as her steel-capped boots would carry her there. She needed a drink, all right.
To celebrate!
* * *
Skeeter wasn’t certain what, exactly, he was looking for as he worked the Britannia Gate’s baggage line. But the Britannia was the first gate to cyc
le since Ianira’s disappearance. If Skeeter had kidnapped someone as world-famous as Ianira Cassondra, intending something more subtle than simply killing her and dumping the body somewhere, he’d have tried to smuggle her out through the first open gate available.
For one thing, it would be far easier to torture a victim down a gate. Fewer people to hear—or at least care about—the screams. And if her abductor really was the person who’d shoved her out of the way of an assassin’s bullet, if he actually was interested in keeping her alive, then getting her off the station would be imperative. Too many people had far too many opportunities to strike at Ianira on station, even if her rescuer tried to keep her hidden. In a gossip-riddled place like La-La Land, nothing stayed secret for long. Certainly not an abduction of someone as beloved and strikingly recognizable as Ianira.
So Skeeter had abandoned his search of the station, donned a shapeless working man’s shirt and the creaseless trousers of the Victorian era—the costume worn by all Time Tours baggage handlers working the Britannia—and reported for work, as planned. As Ianira had planned . . . He couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t dwell on the fear and the dull, aching anger, not if he hoped to catch what might be a very fleeting, subtle clue betraying a smuggler.
How someone might successfully sneak someone through a gate occupied Skeeter’s thoughts as hotel bellhops arrived in steady streams from hotels up and down Commons, bringing cartloads of luggage tagged for London. Tourists generally carried no more on their person than an average passenger was permitted to carry aboard a jetliner, which meant—and Skeeter stared in dismay at the flood of baggage carts on direct approach to the Britannia’s lounge—that bellhops and baggage handlers had to transport every last trunk, carpet bag, portmanteau, and ladies’ toiletry case from hotel room door to down-time destination, through a gate which opened only so wide and stayed open only so long.
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