Time Rip
Page 3
"The same way I know you were born in Cornwall, but raised in London, your father was a shoemaker, and you had kippers for breakfast this morning."
Egbert blinks. "Crimey, if you ain't Sherlock Holmes, you're a ruddy mind-reader."
How about both?
I still think he read my mind earlier tonight. Hunter often did, rarely met a brain he couldn't probe. It's a handy skill to have in the secret agent business--and just as useful in detective work. But I don't think Holmes realizes he's using it. The spell blinds him to anything that's not one of his classic traits. He's locked into his current caricature. Sher-locked. Reading minds, but doing it on a subconscious level, then chalking up the data to his famous deductive reasoning.
Not that it makes much difference one way or the other. The end result is the same. Egbert shuts up. Good. Mounts his perch on the back of the cab. Better. And drives us away a few seconds after the firemen clatter to a stop and bound off their wagon, but before they have a chance to ask us any inconvenient questions.
Thank you.
Oh, and Arthur, who I thought would be full of questions, asks only one.
"Were you serious about hunting the Ripper?"
Holmes shrugs. "Why not? It seems I've nothing better to do."
"Very well then." Arthur opens the little trapdoor above and behind us. "Popkins, we won't return to the admiral's just yet. We're going to Whitechapel first." He looks at Holmes, their faces masked in shadow. "I presume you agree with me that the best place to start any investigation is the crime area itself, then work outward from there."
"An area that's already been scoured by two police forces," Egbert grumbles to himself. Or maybe he's grousing to the horse. "I'd like to know what he thinks we can do when scores of men have been searching since August, and come up empty-handed."
"Ah, but we have Sherlock Holmes on our team. Or someone who acts like him, at least." Arthur chuckles slightly. "Either way, he may be the one man in all London who can find Jack the Ripper."
"Mmm, yes," Holmes murmurs, pensive, barely listening, I sense. "Mind you, I already suspect who he is... and what he's about... not what you might think, by the way. Motive is the key to most murders, and there are only several to choose from. Avarice, revenge, passion--"
"What about insanity?" Arthur suggests.
"No doubt that one strikes too close to home for him," a gruff mutter filters down from the driver's perch.
Who asked you, Egbert?
"Madness, in terms of a highly charged mental or emotional state, falls under the Passion category. Unless the madman is an attention seeker, in which case it would fall under Avarice; he's greedy for fame... or infamy," Holmes explains, unruffled. "To motive, however, must be added other factors, such as opportunity and the murderer's core character. How clever is he, how confident, how daring?"
"But if you don't know who the blighter is, how can you tell any of that?" Egbert argues.
"By his modus operandi, of course."
"His what?"
"How he does things, Egbert," I translate.
"Hush, Popkins," Arthur tells him. "This is good stuff. A pity we've so little light in here. I'd love to take notes for future use."
I'd be happy to loan him the penlight key chain tucked inside my bodice, but I don't want to instigate a whole new discussion on time-travel and future technology.
"By interpreting the murderer's methods, we can deduce his character traits, which leads us to his identity," Holmes elaborates. "It narrows the search instantly. Ascertaining his type makes it far easier to discover his name. Detective work, in general, is a blend of observation and analysis. It all boils down to using what you do know to determine what you don't."
"Bravo." Arthur slaps his knee for emphasis. He sounds vastly entertained.
"Elementary." Holmes stifles a yawn behind his hand. "Thus, I've been mulling over the known facts of this case--piecing them together this way and that, to see how best they fit. For this investigation, that is the proper place to start, not the crime area."
Meaning he's been subconsciously picking brains, I'm pretty sure, harvesting the contemporary accounts of the Ripper case from Arthur and Egbert, and the historical overview from me. Include the news article he scanned, and he has many pieces to play with. The problem is there are too many, and none of them add up to anything conclusive. Jack the Ripper is one of history's great unsolved mysteries. I doubt even Sherlock Holmes can crack it.
Don't tell him that though.
He settles back in the seat, pressed against me shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. Tease. Yeah, I know he doesn't realize the effect his body has on mine--and wouldn't acknowledge it if he did--but that doesn't stop the effect from happening. He's changed. I haven't. The autumn night is chill, and his lean form feels oh-so-warm, tempting me to rewrite this platonic friendship. Plato has a lot to answer for, in my opinion. Hmm, I wonder what Arthur would think of a story where Watson seduces Holmes...
"The case, at this point, is more a matter of headwork than footwork," he concludes. "Thank you anyway, doctor, but I've no need to see Whitechapel tonight."
"Good, because there ain't much there worth seeing." Egbert huffs out his breath. "I've driven Master Geoffrey into the district all hours of day and night. It looks bad, and smells worse. He'll make himself sick, that young gent, campaigning to fix the place."
"Only if he thought it would win him extra accolades," Arthur says dryly. "All Geoffrey Lawrence wants to make is a name for himself. His risks are calculated for optimum publicity. The very controversy of his social reform platform keeps him in the headlines."
"You've known him long, have you?" Holmes asks casually.
"For several years now, ever since his father and I became friends over a flare-up of the old man's gout. When he sallies forth, it's only to gather fodder for his rants. Talks a good show, but that's all it is, I'm afraid. He preaches one thing, practices another. Calls for better conditions, but privately scorns the poor wretches who need them. Under that humanitarian façade beats the heart of a bigot. Correct me if I'm wrong," Arthur calls through the trapdoor. "Speak freely, man, this conversation will go no farther than the cab. Have you ever seen him offer so much as a farthing to any of the beggars he interviews?"
"Um... no." Egbert coughs, as though embarrassed for Geoffrey.
I think of how Hunter always put his money where his mouth was and gave away billions. Or will. I have to keep reminding myself that my personal past lies in the future. Weird thing, time-travel.
"But I don't see every move he makes in Whitechapel," Egbert adds, in what appears to be an attempt to defend the young man. "Sometimes he has me wait for him by a public house while he walks around on his own. Whatever else he is, he's no coward."
Egbert has a point. The East End slums of Victorian London were some of the foulest slums of the western world. Thousands of people cramped into the most appalling conditions. People in dire straits do dire things. Geoffrey Lawrence is lucky he hasn't been mugged, or worse. Then again, he might move about with impunity. Whether or not any aid comes from his own pocket, the people must know he's lobbying on their behalf. To them, he may be a hero.
I'm not sure what to think of him, actually. He sounds like a man who waves the right banner for the wrong reason--and maybe doesn't do it quite the way he should--but at least he's trying to do something. So many see suffering and just walk blindly by.
The irony here is that our quarry himself helped improve the East End. Jack wasn't the first mass murderer, or the worst, but he was the first one whose crimes gained widespread newspaper coverage. Because of him, the public eye focused on Whitechapel, and nobody liked what they saw. He was the kick that started the ball rolling toward serious reforms.
"Shall we return to the admiral's, sir? Or are we still planning to catch the Ripper tonight?" Egbert asks. Sarcastic son of a shoemaker, isn't he?
"That depends." Holmes stifles another yawn. "Is Geoffrey at home?"
"Ah," Holmes says. "In that case, we can do both. Simultaneously."
Damn. And here I've been holding out for the Ripper being Queen Vicky's grandson and cohorts. I've always had a perverse proclivity for the royal cover-up theory.
Arthur tenses. "Surely you're not suggesting... "
"Of course not." Holmes punctuates the words with a haughty sniff. "I never suggest a definite conclusion."
"But... Geoffrey Lawrence?" Arthur persists. "Impossible."
You'd think he'd know better, having created the character he's challenging. For that matter, the character's previous persona was equally cocksure. Hunter Steele or Sherlock Holmes, they both have all the answers. There's no arguing with either of them.
"The man has motive," Holmes states. "Publicity. The murders, by their mysterious and ghoulish nature, have brought tremendous attention to his cleanup campaign--publicity that endures, because just as the grave dust begins to settle on one, another carved corpse is found. On top of which, it's known that the mutilations are not the cause of death, but inflicted afterward, implying they were done for shock value, specifically to attract notice."
Or the crazed act of a pervert. Sexual serial killers commit such atrocities. But in this instance, and despite most of the victims being prostitutes, the coroners' reports declared that none of them showed any signs of sexual use before or after death. I don't know about Arthur, but I'm willing to hear more.
"Two, he has opportunity," Holmes continues. "Geoffrey Lawrence is known in Whitechapel, known to visit the area by day or night, and known to interview beggars and soiled doves. Thus, even with the Ripper terror hanging over the place, his victims would have no qualms about stopping for him if he approached. He's one of the least likely to be suspected, and knows it. Which brings us to point three... He has gonads the size of a hot air balloon. Metaphorically speaking."
"Ahem... " Arthur half chokes. "My dear fellow, Holmes doesn't use such... metaphors."
No, but his former self used much worse. Point three had a slight ring of Hunter to it, but tidied up for Holmes.
Who narrows his eyes at Arthur. "Do you presume to dictate how I may or may not express myself?"
Arthur glances at me. "What would you say to my sending him over a waterfall in a future story?... Oh, never mind." He shakes his head at Holmes. "You've presented a good case, but it's still impossible. The latest victim was found this morning. Geoffrey was home all night and stayed abed till noon. Said he felt fatigued. I know because I was there in the house the whole while myself."
"The perfect alibi for him," Holmes says, unperturbed. "If the latest victim were Jack's. However, a former sailor named Burke killed her, under the instructions of Timothy's friend, Marris, who'd intended it to look like a Ripper job.
"The girl had been... compromised by Timothy, who didn't want his father to know and had offered her money to relocate, so to speak, with Marris arranging the deal for him. But Marris had her murdered, instead--and pocketed the bribe himself, no doubt. Beyond the monetary gain, I believe he felt he was doing away with a rival, while keeping Timothy in the dark regarding the deed. The body was to be maimed beyond recognition, but its location put a name to it."
He pauses for breath, then recounts what we witnessed at Marris's house, adding his own conjectures regarding the background of the incident, such as:
Burke was a longtime scoundrel. Marris, a manipulator. He'd known Burke since boyhood, been corrupted by him and secretly hated the man, but needed him to do his dirty work. Marris was also a male prostitute and an opium addict. He and Burke together operated a sideline business, which might be titled Discretion for Sale, whereby they helped wealthy gentlemen escape embarrassing predicaments. Timothy Lawrence was one of their best customers. And Mary Kelly probably wasn't the first person they'd killed.
"Good Lord," Arthur murmurs.
"I'm getting a headache," Egbert complains.
I think of Timothy, and my heart aches. Is he home yet, I wonder. Has he seen the papers, heard about Mary, put two and two together?
Timothy may be Trouble with a capital T, but he's also troubled. Not sure which way to swing. He's young and confused, intimidated by his father, doesn't much care for his brother... and doesn't seem to like himself, either. But I believe he honestly cared for the boy who'd hunted sea serpents and defended him from bullies. I can even believe Marris returned that affection, before the opium took him over. Timothy became an unknowing cog in Marris's machinations, but their friendship was an old one and had once been made of better stuff. I think he'll handle the Geoffrey-Ripper news easier than the truth about Marris.
Yes, I accept Holmes's conclusion. (It was the hot air gonads that convinced me.) The trick, of course, will be proving it.
Then again, maybe we won't have to.
The cab rolls to a halt. The door opens. We three passengers step out, freeing Egbert for whatever else he cares to do tonight.
"Not a word to anyone of what's happened," Arthur cautions him.
"Crimey, no one would believe me anyway." Grumbling to himself, Egbert drives off.
Gee, I'm gonna miss him. But not much.
Silently, I follow Arthur and Holmes into a grand house where all the windows are round portholes. Very nautical. Admiral Lawrence, I gather, is somewhat eccentric.
He's also broad beamed, white haired, and staring. We find him seated in the parlor, after Arthur finds me one of Timothy's suits, and I make a quick costume change, it being deemed that Sherlock Holmes in the flesh will be novelty enough for the old man. Dr. Watson in drag might be too much. And, no, I'm not happy about this. If I wanted to wear guy clothes, I wouldn't be a cross-dresser.
Damn it.
Timothy, by the way, is not home yet. Hence the stare. It's aimed at a young strawberry blonde in calico seated across the room. A pretty girl with haunted eyes. She sits straight and motionless, a marble statue. And just as pale.
God, I love her dress. Of course, at the moment, I'd love any dress.
Both she and the admiral shoot glances our way as we enter the room. But before any introductions can be made, frantic footsteps hammer down the hall. A breathless Timothy bursts in, hair tousled, gaze wild, a newspaper clutched in a white knuckled hand.
The girl's eyes widen at the sight of him. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Quivering, she rises from her chair. Timothy's flushed face contorts with a relief so great it looks almost painful.
"Thank heaven," he gasps on a ragged breath. "The butler said you'd recently arrived, but... " His voice cracks, and he stops, swallows. "I scarcely dared believe... " He takes a single step forward. "I'd just seen the papers... "
"It wasn't me," she whispers. "I let Jessica use my room last night." Sudden tears wet her cheeks. "I know you didn't want me to come here, but... I've been so frightened... I couldn't think where else to go."
Timothy strides toward her. "Mary, I'm so sorry... "
"Oh, Timmy, it's been an awful day." She rushes to meet him, and they land in each other's arms, clinging, sobbing--
"Ahem!" Admiral Lawrence clears his throat--loudly--a whip lash of a cough that snaps the couple apart.
Mary sniffles and gulps, fighting for composure, glancing from father to son.
The admiral glares at Timothy. "Am I to understand that you know this girl?"
"Yes, sir." Timothy looks like a man facing a firing squad--and without a last cigarette or blindfold--but holds his ground. "Father, allow me to present Miss Mary Kelly." He sucks in a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "The young lady I intend to marry." His gaze slants to Mary. "That is, if she'll have me."
"Oh, Timmy"--she starts crying again--"I never thought I'd ever hear you say that."
"Is that a yes?" he asks.
She cries harder, unable to speak, but nodding furiously.
"Young lady?" A derisive snort sounds from a nautical nose.
Ti
mothy glowers. "She is to me, sir." He fishes in a pocket and hands her his handkerchief. Mary gazes at him like he just gave her diamonds. "This lady is the mother of my future child. I intend to do right by her. And I'll thank you to treat her with respect."
"Indeed." Admiral Lawrence settles back in his chair and laces pudgy fingers over a portly belly. "And how do you expect to support your new family when I disown you?" He fires his torpedo stare at Mary. "I hope you realize, miss, that if you marry this young bounder, that's all you'll be getting. Him, and nothing else."
Mary tilts up her chin in defiance. "I never said I wanted anything else, did I?"
Timothy's hands fist at his sides. "How? I don't know yet, but rest assured I will find a way. If I have to sell fish or sweep chimneys, I'll do it!"
"And I'll help." Mary gives Timothy a brave smile. "We'll manage."
"Of course we will." He returns the smile.
Me, I've never seen him look better.
The admiral grips the arms of his chair, his face turning redder and redder. Just when I think he's about to explode, he throws back his head and roars with laughter.
"By Jove, I've misjudged you, lad! You've got more backbone than I thought." He leans forward, suddenly stern and staring again. "But you've misjudged me as well, if you think I'll let any grandchild of mine be raised by a chimney sweep. You'll both stay right here in this house where you belong!" He thumps the chair arm with the heel of his hand to punctuate the decree.
Actually, he looks pretty good, too.
I find myself in a moment of abstract reflection, pondering the phenomenon of bisexuality. I've never thought it meant that a person requires both genders, just that a bisexual person has the choice of either or. Timothy's made his choice tonight, and something tells me he's going to be okay with it. How he'll deal with Marris's death, I'm not sure, but he has Mary now to help him through life's trials. And he has a father, too, one he can finally see eye to eye with. He and Mary are right. They'll manage, and probably very well.