In A Flicker

by George R. Lopez

  “To me, you are Father Time, Drakes.” Ethan chuckled, opening the cover to admire the delicate features of a miniature clock he’d sorely missed.

  “Oddly enough sir, that’s what my wife calls me.”

  “I’ll take it, Drakes.”

  “Oh! Don’t you want to know the cost of it, my good man?” Curious, Drakes wondered why his eager customer was so charmed by this particular pocket watch, though he was more than ready to make a monetary transaction, suddenly excited by the prospect of a sale, funds to add to his meager coffers and so early in the day!

  “How much for it then?” Ethan reached for his wallet before the answer came.

  “Twenty schillings.”

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Ethan reached for the correct currency without a word, pulling an ample amount from his billfold.

  “It’s a fair price sir, I assure you.” The jeweler misinterpreted Ethan’s reaction.

  “Without question. I expected it to be more. Here. A tip for your trouble.”

  “No trouble, sir. Happy to be of service!”

  Generous even before he’d been born, Ethan made the day, perhaps that entire week for a humble shopkeeper scraping out a living in the shabby East End.

  “Would you like it wrapped, Dr. Bridgeman?” Drakes kindly offered.

  A bit startled, Ethan knew he would have to adjust to being directly addressed by his new name. He’d have to get used to this 1888 identity, a whole new persona. It is one thing to rehearse a role and quite another to step onto the stage in front of a live audience!

  “No, thank you, Drakes. I’ll keep it on my person.”

  “If I may, while you are in Whitechapel, perhaps you should keep it concealed. Your attire is advertisement enough that you’re a man of means. Keep your distance from others...there are more than a few who’d like to pick a pocket or two.”

  “Duly noted, sir.” Attaching the fob to his trousers, Ethan tucked his new watch discreetly away into his pocket, where it belonged and where it would stay.

  In 2014 he’d paid nearly three hundred and eighty pounds for this timepiece the first time around, giving all new meaning to the word inflation. Approximate to the time, twenty schillings was equivalent to two weeks average pay. Basically he was paying for the watch again with what he was taxed on the purchase as an antique in the future, a very small price to pay for something he considered priceless.

  “Thank you, sir.” Mr. Drakes tucked the money away beneath the counter.

  Glancing down at his attire once he’d attached the watch, Ethan understood why Drakes took the trouble to forewarn him. The Consortium’s decision to provide him with such high class clothing for leverage sake, assuming the persona of a physician should he be in the precarious scenario of being questioned by local authorities, he stood out in a crowd. Having precisely the opposite effect intended, Ethan knew he was far too conspicuous, an easy mark. He did not blend into the environment at all and he needed to for his research. Time to readdress the dress and make a change.

  “Yes, of course. By any chance...”

  “I’ll give you the address of a tailor on Hutton Street. The bloke who owns it is named Thomas Clemens. He will put you in more appropriate attire for this area.”

  Ethan saw the wisdom in Drake’s eyes and heard the perception of his words. He’d found a confidant, a ghostly friend from the past with whom he could confer over the coming months. Though Drakes was aware this man wasn’t indigenous to the area, to what degree, he had no idea. Writing a location on a scrap of paper, he handed it to his a little too well-to-do customer then sent him on his way, ready to return to his former task at hand, the watch he’d just repaired, polishing off his own fingerprints from the timepiece.

  “Thank you, Mr. Drakes. How very kind of you. I bid you a fond farewell.”

  As Ethan began to make his way through the shop toward the door, he paused, listening once again to the soothing sounds surrounding him, each clock precisely set. Turning back toward the jeweler, Ethan smiled then made an amusing comment of his own.

  “By the way, my good man, would you happen to have the correct time?”

  The shopkeeper laughed heartily as he glanced around his noisy shop.

  “I can see your dilemma!” Drakes played along, popping open the timepiece he held in his hand. “Looks like 9:58, Dr. Bridgeman. Right on time. Wait a moment! You will hear what ten o’clock sounds like in my humble business establishment!”

  Adjusting his precious timepiece, his new, old pocket watch, Ethan graciously waved goodbye then walked out the door, brass bell tinkling as he closed it behind him. Standing there beneath the unassuming pale green awning that had called him across Commercial Street that morning, he listened as the chimes inside the shop began tolling the ten o’clock hour of his first full day in the 19th Century.

  “For whom the bell tolls...it tolls for thee.” Recalling the words of Hemingway, Ethan smiled and shook his head in earnest, knowing a favorite author wouldn’t be born until 1899, in another eleven years. A fortuitous day, to say the least, Ethan’s mind was still reeling with the notion that he’d reacquired his trusted companion as he left what was now a safe haven. Turning back toward the direction of his lodging, should he continue down Commercial, the tailor shop Drakes recommended would be a few streets over on the other side of Whitechapel Road.

  If memory served, Ethan also recalled another fine establishment along the way. Feeling slightly lightheaded, hearing the beginnings of the grumbling coming from his stomach, he knew he wasn’t too far away from the famous Ten Bells Pub. Being more attentive to his surroundings, he soon came upon one of the few landmarks of old London’s East End business district, a place still standing and in full operation in the 21st Century. Over the centuries of existence since its grand opening in 1752, “Ten Bells” had worn many hats, only to return to its roots as a common drinking spot and victual house, popular with locals and tourists alike. Claiming its notoriety as one place Jack the Ripper’s victims were known to frequent, the pub was located on the corner of a row of four-story buildings a stone’s throw away from his abode. It was calling him, the perfect spot for some much needed nourishment. And coffee!

  The word “pub” originated from the word “public” noting that the upstairs also housed tenants as a common domicile, therefore, the eatery was open at all hours for every meal, including breakfast. Including coffee! For a time, from 1976 to 1988 the pub had a change of name to “The Jack the Ripper” but was later restored to the original name with no negative connotation and it has remained so ever since.

  Stepping into history within history, Ethan was greeted by a woman who rivaled any stein maiden working at a German beer festival.

  “Mornin’, love. Don’t you look fancy? Come in for some dining, sir?” The bar maid bowed in mild mockery, speaking proper English in reaction to Ethan’s attire.

  Ethan thought silently, “I’ve got to get to that tailor next!” then spoke aloud,

  “Yes please, some coffee to begin.”

  “Sure thing, love. Be back to ya right away. Find a seat...doc.”

  A medical bag gave away his identity again. Wondering if it was a friend or foe, Ethan located a small table by the window then pulled the journal out of his vest pocket. The Consortium held all of his items, including his personal journal, stored in his tiny LHC quarters, safe and sound. Supplying him instead with an authentic antique, the beautiful leather-bound journal of premium quality, befitting a man of means, he loved the feel of it. The pencil, also indicative of the era, felt a bit slight in his hand compared with his own but he admired its slender elegance. The doctor was satisfied with selections made on his behalf. He knew if he needed to replenish anything he could do so directly from this time period, an age when anything he’d need was available to him. Instructed to bring all items back to the future with him, with that passing thought, Ethan began to make his first entry in the 19th Century.

  ***

  Journal Ent
ry ˜ 28 August 1888

  The sensation of the surreal has melted away. In my first six hours I have come across a cast of characters Oxford thespians would salivate to observe and embody their existence on stage. From the constable to the innkeeper to my newfound friend the watchmaker who returned a good old friend to me! I’ve seemingly been able to speak to the dead as one of them.

  As this is my first journal entry during my research, I am compelled to note to The Consortium that future trials in The Valley must, and I strongly urge, must add more focus to recreating the pungent odors relating to the Scopes research timeline and destination. Holy hell! The bloody smell!!

  Three days until the first JTR victim. I will do multiple walks in daylight to find my best vantage point so not to be seen yet have an escape route afterward with the same advantage. I will only survey the area one time at night. Tonight. It will allow me to determine where the shadows are darkest. Too many returns to the scene of the crime increases the chance of being spotted and becoming another suspect.

  For the time being my priorities favor far less conspicuous clothing and fewer public appearances. I intend to restrict my movement to my lodgings and this place to dine and caffeinate. Only by necessity will I initiate dialogue with those I deem a priority for local assistance. I will only alter from my normal routine to get to the scene of each sequential event. In the meantime, the coffee I ordered here at Ten Bells Pub has arrived. GOT MY WATCH BACK! Was I supposed to leave it behind? My brain hurts. Too much deep thought before coffee.

  ***

  Order restored! His simplest creature comfort of being able to check the time at his leisure made Ethan feel much more in control of his surroundings and actions, totally understandable for a man who had lived by the motions of the hands of time. Having had the first meal and coffee of this visit to the 19th Century, Ethan’s next order of business was a visit to the fabric shop on Hutton Street, a short walk down Commercial Street then left onto Whitechapel Road then a right onto Hutton to his destination. Along the way as midday was fast approaching, these main streets were rapidly becoming more congested with traffic of vendors, vagrants and vagabonds, protestors and prostitutes. Horse drawn wagons and wooden push carts were filled with any and all sorts of trash and treasures, serving poor and needy souls.

  Horse-mounted and foot-patrolling constables created a visible deterrent to any lawlessness in the streets of Whitechapel. History recorded the Whitechapel police beefing up their attendance after two murders of local women had already occurred this year. On 3 April 1888 a forty-five year old prostitute named Emma Smith was attacked and bludgeoned by three men considered to be a local gang. Although she made it away from them, she died from her injuries that following morning. Some historians labeled this the beginning of the Autumn of Terror. Only a desperate few from local gangs attacked women. In fact, violent offenses against females during this period rarely made it into double digits in a year’s time. On 7 August, however, the local law began to pay attention when another prostitute by the name of Martha Tabram was found stabbed to death on the landing of the George Yard buildings at 5:00 a.m. The two women never made the profile of Jack the Ripper’s methodology of killing, yet remained on the radar. Both being unsolved and so close in proximity to others yet to come, Ethan’s research indicated (and The Consortium agreed) that Mary Ann Nichols was most likely the first true victim of Jack the Ripper, that this would be the focus of the Flicker jump.

  He couldn’t make it to the tailor shop fast enough. Even struggling to avoid any and all eye contact, he could feel countless eyes on him, prostitutes and pickpockets alike sizing him up for the taking. Were he not a man of tall stature he surely would have been targeted for a robbery by a group of street thugs. Fortunately, he made it to his destination without incident. Entering the shop that, on the outside, had the address Drake’s had given him, Ethan was one of several customers patronizing the place. Three counters lined the three walls of the shop, rolls upon rolls of fabrics of low to decent quality materials standing up on end, as if standing at attention. Some customers were buying material for clothing, some for furniture and others seeking matching material for patchwork. Positioned in the back left corner of the shop were two racks of clothing made by the in-house tailor, Thomas Clemens. Sitting behind a sewing machine was the man that could have been the watchmaker’s twin. Ethan rubbed his eyes in disbelief wondering if the man was having a joke on him and ran over there while Ethan was eating. As all the other shoppers were looking to bother the fabric clerk, Ethan approached Drakes’ clone while he was patching someone’s jacket where the elbow section of the sleeve had become tattered with wear.

  “Pardon me, sir? Drakes, the watchmaker, sent me to see you regarding some local attire.”

  “To answer your question, no, he is not my twin brother.” Clemens anticipated an inquiry, having been asked countless times before.

  “I’m sorry?” Ethan played innocent, not wanting to pry.

  Thomas Clemens stopped sewing then stood, walking around a bulky apparatus. There was a thud with every other step. With the assistance of a cane, he approached Ethan who immediately saw the wooden left leg.

  “It’s funny when men reach a certain age we all begin to look alike. White facial hair, all hunched over, we become a species of bleached imps.”

  “I’m somewhat stumped. What I mean is, uh, I’m surprised how similar...”

  “Perhaps a restart, sir?” Clemens could barely contain an outburst of laughter.

  “Please.” Ethan said, sounding relieved. “My name is Arthur Bridgeman.”

  Ethan chose not to use his title since he’d already provided enough information in his style of dress, still carrying the medical bag. No need to state the obvious.

  “Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Bridgeman?”

  “Well sir, I’m to be in town for an extended period of time as to require some additional attire. Something more, shall I say, ‘common’ to this region of London. Might you help me with this?”

  The tailor looked Ethan up and down. Pulling a pipe out of his coat pocket he placed it in his mouth unlit. It seemed to help him think better.

  “What is it you’d like, sir?”

  “Well, I suppose the whole works if you can. Shirts, trousers, vests and jackets, even the customary hats. Two of each for now and more if they do the job.”

  “I suppose I could provide two full matching wardrobes from what I have here today unless you are particular about the fabric or style.”

  “No, thank you, but I’ll take what you have for now.” Ethan said, trying not to sound too desperate to get out of his current clothing.

  “I’ll see what I can put together for you, sir.” Clemens seemed amenable.

  As the old man hobbled off, relying on his sturdy cane for support, Ethan looked down, realizing he had forgotten one more important detail.

  “I’d ask you about a place to buy shoes but I tremble at the thought of triplets.”

  “Trust me. Two of us is quite enough.” Clemens had “sized him up” at a glance, no need for any measurements. He plucked everything Ethan would need from the racks in a matter of minutes. Laying two full outfits across the counter, he grinned.

  “Well my good man, Drakes sent you to the right place. These are to your liking, Dr. Bridgeman?” (Yes, it was that obvious.)

  “More than suitable for my purposes, thank you.”

  With that, the two gentlemen completed the transaction. Clemens had his clerk wrap the clothing in brown paper as they chatted jovially for a few minutes. Ethan bid him farewell, leaving the shop with his new attire bundled beneath his arm. So far, so good. Ethan was beginning to settle into the 19th Century.

  The medical bag was clearly a problem, drawing unwanted attention wherever he went. Likewise, Ethan was carrying an inordinate amount of cash on his person, an invitation to disaster should he be robbed on the seedy streets of the East End. If he was going to blend in, he needed to do himself the favor of fin
ding a safer place to stash the bag that routinely gave him away as a man of means. As he did not trust leaving it behind in his room, he decided to make one more stop.

  On his way to the tailor shop, Ethan had passed a financial institution close by on Whitechapel Road, no doubt established in service to the area slum lords, a place for their local managers to make rental deposits so they’d have no need to come to that part of town. This time he’d use the conspicuous medical bag to his advantage. Entering the bank, his presence was noted instantly, his stylish attire commanding attention and respect from the employees. He was approached immediately.

  “Good day, sir. How may I be of service to you today, doctor, is it?” With that, he extended his hand. “Horace Edgewood, bank manager, at your service.”

  “A pleasure, sir. Doctor Arthur Bridgeman.” Ethan gave him a firm handshake and a warm greeting to begin their association. “I’ve a sizeable deposit to make and my bag needs safekeeping, as well.”

  As it turned out, Mr. Edgewood could be more than accommodating and would, in fact, give Dr. Bridgeman not just a tour of the bank but a safe deposit box ample enough to receive whatever he should need to store during his stay. Opening a bank account required only the documentation he had in the bag which promptly moved to the vault once he’d signed the papers. Retrieving his personal identification from the banker, there was never any question regarding its authenticity. It was all quite cordial, good fortune for Ethan to make his acquaintance as another ally in his quest to scope out the Ripper. A necessity to place the bulk of his considerable financial assets behind the walls of a bank, it was Mr. Edgewood’s good fortune as well. One deposit made his day and week, providing Ethan with one less thing to worry about on a day-to-day basis for the many weeks of his stay.

  “Glad to be of service!” Shaking Dr. Bridgeman’s hand once again, Edgewood would remember the gentleman who’d come to call that day.