“I sure didn’t expect to find you alone using that type of language.” The voice came from a distance, a dark figure standing at the entrance to the alleyway, carried through the dense fog laden corridor by moist, unbreathable oxygen.
Walking closer, the man continued. “I could hear ya getting sick from down the way. Had a bit too much, have we?” Approaching closer, Ethan could make out the uniform, custodial helmet, insignia and baton indicative of one of London’s finest, a bobby on the beat.
Ethan said silently, “Well, at least the uniform fits the target period.”
Attempting to focus, Ethan rose from his knees. “To the contrary, I think I might need a pint or two.” Mustering a laugh, “I’m fine, officer.”
“Begging your pardon chum, but the contents of your stomach on the ground in front of ya tells me otherwise.”
“Right, well, that being done I feel much better now, thank you.”
“What’s your name, sir?” The constable noticing this man wasn’t dressed in the typical attire for that part of town was busy sizing him up. In fact, Ethan’s wardrobe was something someone of means would be wearing.
“Doctor. Arthur Bridgeman.”
“Doctor Bridgeman, is it? Well then, it seems we’ve begun inviting a far better class of boozer to our end of town.” The constable leaned back on his heels, letting out a rather sardonic, judgmental snicker he didn’t try to hide.
Remembering who he was by title in the future and his present time, it was vital Ethan not stand out and any “doctor” allowing himself to be belittled would come off as strange to an officer patrolling the slums on the graveyard shift. Ethan stood tall, poised and confident. Adjusting his clothing, he picked up his medical bag.
“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, sir. I’ve not been drinking. In fact, I’m quite sober in mind and body and would readily recall details of your features and this dialogue should I happen into a discussion with some of my friends over at Scotland Yard.”
Feeling his position of authority challenged, quickly losing the upper hand, the bobby’s body language and sarcastic tone shifted to one of a subordinate.
“Well sir, best be on your way then, doctor.”
“Yes, constable. Thank you.”
As the bobby continued along down his East End beat, Ethan retrieved his clean handkerchief, wiping off his face of sweat and any residual remnants of the ordeal. If the first few minutes were any indication, his attempt to “keep a low profile” was failing miserably. Ethan took heed of the constable’s advice and began to make his way out of the alley. He was absolutely certain of his location in old London. It was a moment of recognition, having walked the same streets countless times more than one hundred years in the future, during his research and planning phase. “Well, they got the location right. Two down.” Having personally selected the “jump” site, he assessed its obscure, off the beaten path location as safe. During the FTC trials in Oxfordshire the construction crews duplicated these streets from the late 1800’s as depicted in photographs from the era. It was the time in which he found himself but there was no facsimile for what had sickened him, no replica of the pungent smell they couldn’t imagine, let alone mimic.
Under the shroud of night and fog, gaslight streetlamps barely offered a warm glow or a guidepost to each street corner introduced into the scene as he passed but at least Ethan knew he was in Whitechapel. Still flustered by forgetting his watch, he could only surmise that the Flicker calibration was accurate to the second on this jump and it was, indeed, just past four in the morning, 28 August 1888. Looking through several trash heaps along his route, he located a discarded newspaper dated 27 August 1888. Assuming that this morning’s papers had yet to hit the streets, it stood to reason but he needed definitive proof. His discovery of the paper proved he was in the vicinity of the correct time, at least on the same block, metaphorically speaking. How old was this discarded post? A day or a week? He had to be certain. Verify before worry. Follow the clues. Each breadcrumb helped lead him to the fact that he was where he needed to be.
The first item on the agenda was to obtain lodging. Ethan had walked this route endlessly in 21st Century London, his initial destination planned to be in the vicinity of Flower and Dean Streets, seeking a “males only” dormitory that housed only the local warehouse employees. The area surrounding Commercial Street, Bucks Row, and Thrawl Street (where, by consensus, Jack the Ripper’s first victim Mary Ann Nichols resided last before being evicted for not paying the daily rent of four pence) was especially seedy. The lodgings of that period in a dark, villainous, crime-ridden East End of London were primarily gender specific, an attempt to identify and avoid prostitution activity, though many inns had no choice but to offer double occupancy to accommodate married couples, making it nearly impossible for local police and proprietors alike to distinguish who was whom.
With good fortune and keen observation, Ethan saw a man sitting alone reading in a dimly lit recess of one dormitory on Dorset Street. Historical records identified this man as the innkeeper. Someone of a sullied reputation trying to rehabilitate into society, he’d been hired, no doubt, cheaply by the owner of the property who would never be caught dead in this part of town. He appeared to be a rather shady character though he seemed harmless enough.
“Good, eh, morning sir?” The man seemed puzzled in not too different a manner as the bobby Ethan encountered, due to his attire and his early hour of arrival.
“Yes, I was wondering if you might have a room available.” Ethan inquired.
“Yes sir. The rate is sixpence per night. Coming in at such an early time, I have to charge you eight to cover the extra.”
Ethan reached into his billfold, careful not to expose the total of his funds. He could’ve easily paid for his lodging until his time for departure but that again would stir suspicion. Additionally, in this unsavory part of the city, word could get around regarding a gentleman of means residing among them and his safety would become of paramount concern. To lay low and play it safe was the passive plan of action.
“There you are.” Handing the innkeeper exact currency, Ethan smiled.
With an indecisive look, the man handed Ethan a modest key crafted from lesser metals with the room number “319” carved into it.
“Up the stairs, third floor, down the hall to your right.”
“Good on ya. Do you have a working common kitchen on the first floor?”
“A sitting area.” Having been paid, he no longer seemed interested in engaging in banter with this stranger so he went back to his paper.
Before he stepped away, Ethan noticed the front page of the newspaper the man was reading was the same he’d found in the trash.
“Is that today’s paper, perchance?” Ethan probed.
“Yesterday.” Shaking his head in disbelief for a daft question. “Today’s don’t come out for a couple of hours yet.” He was in the right and proper time and place.
Entering through the guest doorway, whatever critical remarks he made silently earlier about the smell of the streets immediately abandoned his mind with what hit his nose as he entered the stairwell. A composition of odors that, in the 21st Century from whence he’d come just minutes earlier could have been used as toxic chemical weaponry, it was nothing less than an attack on the senses. Feces, urine, mildew, sex, animals and some sort of nasty cheese, Ethan held onto the railing as his knees buckled. Turning right then down the hallway of the third floor, the early morning hours presented a surprising cacophony of sounds. Coughing, snoring and a subtle murmuring was all he could discern before reaching his room.
Opening the door, it was a pleasant surprise. The space was relatively well kept, aged, but well kept. Though bare, the walls and ceiling were stained but thankfully, not the sheets. A narrow closet was just in the entryway to the right. A small writing desk was flush to the left wall with the bed and night table positioned at the far end of the room. If time travel had jetlag, Ethan certainly suffered the ill effects of
this malady. It was time to rest. He reclined on the bed, instantly falling sound asleep.
Morning was hazy, as though the fog of nighttime air had made its way through the window past the flimsy curtains, creeping into the room as a shrouded vampire. Was it still morning? Ethan wondered, reaching for his timepiece, a force of habit. Missing in action, every reminder of that oversight left a festering thorn in his side. The momentary calm, a relative quiet in the lodge soon transformed into sounds of arguing, crying, laughing, an array of tawdry emotional outbursts. Sliding his legs off the bed, he allowed his feet to strike the wooden floor with no concern for the tenant beneath him. Rising to his feet required effort. The only window was just on the other side of the night table, facing Dorset Street. Pacing himself, Ethan slowly walked in its direction, still nauseated from his landing on this strange planet, forced to breathe the atmosphere. Peering down, whatever the time, the street below was a parade of activities. A typically bustling city street on any 21st Century Tuesday, why wouldn’t it be the same for this 19th Century Tuesday, as well? Oh! The smell! For a minute he’d forgotten until it slapped him in the face again.
Ethan was not yet prepared to leave any of his items in the room, even though it would probably be his lodging for the next few months, barring any incident that may necessitate moving to avoid drawing undue attention to himself. He thought it best to always bring his medical bag along or find somewhere safer to keep it. The job at hand, the purpose of his visit was overrun with responsibilities in these few days leading up to the first believed murder victim of Jack the Ripper. But first, he wondered how a cup of coffee in this century would taste. Locking his room even though he left nothing behind to steal, Ethan meandered down a disgusting stairwell again, listening to the sounds of life around him. Reaching ground level of the inn, he was met by a different innkeeper who’d likely relieved the night watchman.
“Good morning, sir.” The much older gentleman with white overgrown hair and a beard framing his chubby face seemed pleasant enough. “You’re not from around here...need any directions?”
“Yes. Good morning, sir.” Ethan said. “You wouldn’t by chance have the time? I seem to have forgotten my watch.”
“If you’re accusing one of the tenants of stealing from your room I will have to get the local magistrate.” Suddenly on the defensive, the man scoffed at Ethan.
“No, no. Not at all. I actually forgot my watch in my, eh, travels.”
“Don’t own a watch myself.” The man said calmly. “It’s around nine or so.”
“Thank you, kindly. I need to find a new watch. Is there a jeweler in the area?”
“Several located on Commercial Street a few streets over.”
“Of course, over on Commercial Street. Thank you, sir.” Ethan felt dimwitted not thinking of it himself. Instead, feeling like the stranger in a strange land, he had to remind himself that he’d researched the locale and knew these streets intimately well. Yet, he found it oddly disorienting, being there in real time.
Indeed, there were a few jewelry shops on Commercial Street but there was also one quaint, unassuming little shop. It captured his attention. Drawn in by an awning, it called to him from across the road, his best bet to find a dependable timepiece to replace a treasured keepsake. Ethan felt its conspicuous absence. He felt undressed without it, exposed without being wrapped inside a chronological security blanket he needed to function normally.
Greeted by a brass bell attached at the top of the door, the shopkeeper notified as someone entered his establishment, Ethan closed it more gently. Most repair and design shops did the bulk of their craftwork in a back room out of view of the public and the front of the shop displayed items reserved for sale. As Ethan began looking around, both hands holding the medical bag behind his back, the good doctor was startled by the deep, bellowing voice coming through a doorway, originating from behind heavy black drapes. Listening to an inflection in the first few words uttered, the irritated intonation was unmistakable. The man behind the curtain sounded a bit annoyed, distracted by the interruption of his handiwork by a potential customer.
“Yes, yes...I’ll be right there.”
Ethan continued to scan the superior craftsmanship on display, wall clocks hung beside grandfather clocks standing tall and proud. Other assorted timepieces tucked away inside glass cases, as he walked through the shop his awareness was drawn to the music, a cacophony of sounds blending together like members of a symphony. The tick tock was mesmerizing, the sound of time keeping itself. Every timepiece synchronized, he smiled, admiring the obsessive / compulsive precision, attention to detail, imagining what it must sound like at the stroke of noon...and midnight! Loud enough to wake the dead, no doubt! He finally had the correct time: 9:42 a.m.
Emerging from behind the curtained door a little old man with a cane appeared. The elderly gentleman propped himself beside the sales counter. Donning a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, crafting spectacles attached to them, snow white hair cropped short, his receding hairline and liberal moustache were timeless. He could’ve easily passed for any one of a variety of professors back at Oxford University. Holding an object inside a buffing cloth, his hands were moving, stroking the metal surface in a circular pattern. As Ethan approached he could see the shopkeeper’s intense focus was on polishing a pocket watch with great skill and care.
“Are you from the tax office?” Obviously suspicious, he raised an eyebrow.
“No.” Answering the question inquisitively, Ethan realized he was being sized up again, head to toe, as finely adorned as the timepiece the man was holding. In a manner much like the way he’d been scrutinized by the constable and the innkeeper, Ethan suddenly understood that he was too polished for Whitechapel.
“You look like a tax official.” His apprehension had not subsided.
“I assure you, sir. I am not.”
“Scotland Yard, then?” He did not attempt to disguise his skepticism.
“Goodness, no! I’m just a patron hunting for a pocket watch.”
Looking somewhat less dubious but guarded, keeping a keen eye on the stranger in front of him, the gentleman came around the counter. Laying the watch aside, he extended his right hand in a less hostile, more cordial greeting. In so doing, Ethan placed his medical bag on the counter to free the hand he needed to reciprocate the gesture. With that, the shopkeeper achieved clarity, his trepidation put to rest.
“Well hello, doctor, is it? Drakes. Joseph Drakes at your service.”
“Arthur Bridgeman. How do you do?”
“Fine, fine. You said you’re looking for a pocket watch, sir?”
“Indeed. Something sturdy and reliable.”
“Are you speaking of a watch or a woman?” Drakes joked, cutting the tension he’d originally infused between them.
Ethan smiled broadly in response to his humorous comment. Even though more than a century separated them, funny was still funny. The old man disappeared once more behind the curtain into the mysterious back room. Ethan heard him shuffling things around on his bench, in search of something. Since his arrival, this was truly the first time Ethan felt at ease, looking at the situation for what it was. Surrounded by ghosts from over a hundred years ago, people who were living spirits, long dead before he was born, this was that rare gem of a privilege to speak with living history, an amazing opportunity. After a few minutes the watchmaker reappeared, grinning, about to make the sale. Holding a wooden case lined in soft, dark velvet, filled with pocket watches, he placed it open on the counter. Gold and silver embossed casings, some with the fobs attached, others not, it was a fine vintage collection.
“These are my finest watches, sir. Not much demand for them lately, I’m afraid. The pricing is fair, not for style but rather the precision-timing within each piece.”
“I don’t care about the style. Accuracy is invaluable to me.”
“Oh there’s a value, to be sure. It is how I pay my rent.”
Laying the watches out on the counter, o
ne after another, Ethan suddenly found himself in a weird time warp, a distorted reality. His body went numb with his mind. Bracing against the edge of the counter with both hands, he stared in disbelief, sheer bewilderment at what laid on the velvet in front of him. His antique pocket watch, what he’d forgotten in a suit left behind at the LHC quarters, was staring right back at him, its silver cover embossed in relief with a three-legged horse. His most prized possession, a one-of-a-kind piece had found its way back to him.
“Are you alright, sir?” With no response, Drakes asked again. “Dr. Bridgeman? Is anything wrong?”
“Where did you find this one?” Ethan queried as he pointed out his familiar old friend, almost afraid to touch it, should it disappear through the veil, the shear fabric of space and time torn asunder, strands unraveling with the paradox.
“I know a chap who owns a shop in Paris. He trades with me to suit my requests for foreign designs. This one’s an original. Never seen one like it before. A beauty.”
“Indeed.” Still in shock, Ethan could barely utter the single word. His mind was cluttered with thoughts. How did this happenstance fit into the cosmos? What were the calculated odds that he would randomly choose this shop to enter then be given the timepiece he’d found six years earlier in the window of an antique shop during one of his many late night walks? He did not believe in coincidence. No such thing. Time was on his side.
Drakes handed him the timepiece, as his customer was obviously attracted to it. Rolling it over in his hand, relishing their reunion, its weight in his palm, there was no doubt about it. The pocket watch was his own. He knew it the instant he touched the case. It was his three-legged horse, a long lost companion inexplicably returning to him.
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