A Love For All Time

by Chloe Douglas

  “How dare you stand there wearing a fool’s grin, holding those… those—” She refused to utter the word.

  Mick squinted slightly as he read aloud from the label. “It says here that these bad boys are ‘Fully Vulcanized.’ Whatever that means.”

  “Have you no shame?”

  “Hey, lighten up. It’s just a pack of condoms,” he said, stuffing the package into his coat pocket.

  Livid, Lettitia spun on her heel. The man was too brazen, completely lacking in any type of refined sensitivity. How she could have developed fond feelings for such an ill-bred oaf was a mystery to her.

  Shoving aside a pile of folded undergarments, she happened upon a framed photograph of her and Emmaline as young children. The photograph, taken in a London studio, had them posed with their arms around one another’s waist, Emmaline peering at her older sister with a look of loving adoration.

  As she stared at the photograph, Lettitia’s eyes welled with tears. Putting a gloved hand to her mouth, she stifled a tormented sob.

  “Hey, Tisha, what’s the matter?”

  Her lower lip began to quiver. “Nothing,” she told him, barely able to give voice to the word.

  In the next instant, she felt Mick’s hands on her shoulders. When she instinctively tried to shrug away from his grasp, he tightened his hold.

  “I know it hurts now, Tisha. But, trust me, each day it’ll get a little better.”

  Heedless of the tears streaming down her face, she spun around to face him. “No, it will never get better! She’s dead! She’s not coming back. Ever again.”

  Mick pulled her into his arms. Shaking uncontrollably, she wrapped her arms around his waist, attempting to steady herself against his tall, solid frame.

  To no avail.

  When she began to convulse, her body wracked with breathless sobs, Mick picked her up and carried her to the upholstered chair on the other side of the room. Sitting down, he cradled her against his chest as though she were a small child. Lettitia buried her face against his shoulder, the tears coursing down her face unabated, dampening the woolen fabric of his frock coat.

  “I promise, sweetheart. It won’t always hurt this bad,” he whispered consolingly, pressing soft, feathery kisses against her forehead.

  “You don’t understand,” she told him, her voice thick with emotion. “No one understands.”

  He smoothed a loose tendril of hair from her face. “Trust me. I do.”

  “No! How can you possibly understand how—” Lettitia stopped in mid-sentence, taken aback by the tortured expression that suddenly suffused his features. Indeed, it was like peering into a mirror, her grief reflected in his eyes. In that instant it dawned on her that he was truly a kindred spirit. “You… you’ve lost someone too, haven’t you?”

  Several moments passed before Mick nodded and said, “A little over a year ago my best friend, Thomas O’Fallon, the man I loved like a brother, was murdered.”

  Hearing the pathos in Mick’s voice, Lettitia whimpered, deeply touched by his confession. Deeply touched by the realization that, of all her acquaintances, family and friends alike, he was the only person who understood the pain that she suffered.

  “When Tommy died, I… I lost my better half,” Mick said quietly. “With him went the better angel of my nature.”

  Lettitia put a hand to his cheek. “That’s not true.”

  Mick abruptly turned his head, and Lettitia sensed that he’d confessed more than he intended. Cheeks flushed, he grabbed a handful of the floral drapery that hung at the nearby window.

  “Afraid that I don’t have a handkerchief on me,” he said apologetically as he proceeded to use the fabric to dry her tears, having effectively changed the subject.

  No sooner had the tears been wiped from her face than Lettitia became acutely aware that they were entangled in a most compromising pose. Uncertain how to extricate herself, she gracelessly twisted her upper body. Which was when her gaze fell upon the room’s fireplace.

  Lunging off of Mick’s lap, she purposefully strode across the room.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, obviously confounded by her erratic behavior.

  Easing herself onto the hearth, Lettitia began to move her gloved hands over the mortared bricks. “When we were children, Emmaline and I used to hide notes behind the bricks in the nursery fireplace,” she said over her shoulder. As she spoke, she discovered a loose brick which she hurriedly removed.

  To her amazement, there was a small packet of letters and a ledger book cached inside the cavity. Removing the packet, she could see that it contained three envelopes.

  “Whoa. I think you just hit pay dirt,” Mick exclaimed as he took the packet from her. “Well, what do you know? The top letter is from Sir Willoughby DeWitt. He’s the administrator at St. Ursula’s Hospital, isn’t he?”

  Shocked, Lettitia plucked the letter in question out of Mick’s hands. From it she removed a single sheet of folded notepaper. Instantly recognizing her sister’s handwriting, she read what could only be described as a very businesslike request for forty pounds. Beneath her sister’s missive was the scrawled reply: Forty pounds is an outrage. You asked for only ten pounds the last time.

  “I can think of no possible reason for Emmaline to have been blackmailing Sir Willoughby DeWitt. As far as I know, his character is unimpeachable,” she asserted, quick to come to Sir Willoughby’s defense.

  Mick shrugged. “There could be any number of reasons: sex, drugs, gambling. The list goes on and on.”

  “I cannot imagine Sir Willoughby engaging in any of those vile pursuits.”

  “Then you’re gonna have an even harder time imagining Lord Wortham or your father engaging in them.”

  Lettitia peered at him, dumbfounded. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  Mick held up the other two envelopes: one was from Alfred Merryweather, the other from Lord Wortham.

  Flabbergasted, she snatched both letters from him. With fumbling fingers, she opened the first envelope and removed a note written in her father’s hand: Here is your blood money. Satisfied? In the second letter, Lord Wortham, not nearly so discursive, had written only three words: Cease and desist.

  Opening the small ledger book, Mick carefully examined it. “Your sister was a methodical blackmailer, I’ll give her that. She kept detailed records that included the date of every letter sent to your father, Wortham, and Sir Willoughby, along with the amount of money that she received in return.”

  Lettitia handed him the incriminating letters. “But why would Emmaline do such a thing?”

  “It’s simple: She needed the money and she had the goods on them,” Mick said matter-of-factly. “Blackmail is a straightforward racket. Either the victim pays up or the blackmailer spills the beans, revealing the victim’s dirty little secret to the world. I just wish that we knew why she was blackmailing each of them. That might help narrow the field.”

  “And what field might that be?”

  Lost in thought, Mick absently tapped the three envelopes against the palm of his hand. “Hmm? Oh, I’m talking about the suspect field,” he said after a lengthy pause. “Each of these three men is now a prime suspect in the murder case.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Lettitia exclaimed, aghast that he would even think such a thing. “Surely you don’t mean to imply that Lord Wortham or Sir Willoughby or, God forbid, my father, is a cold-blooded killer?”

  “Hey, I’m not saying that one of them actually wielded the blade that killed Emmaline. This is a pretty tough neighborhood. I’m guessing it would be easy enough to hire someone to do the dirty work.” Mick paused a moment, a baffled expression on his face. “After reading the Scotland Yard police report, I could’ve sworn that your sister was killed by—Ah, never mind. It doesn’t matter now.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “God, I hate murders with multiple suspects. Without forensic evidence, this is going to be a bear to solve.”

  “I will say this only one more time,” Letti
tia hissed, her voice quavering with the force of her emotions. “Under no circumstance did any one of these three men—”

  “Come on,” Mick interjected, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her to her feet. “I need to talk to that landlady again.”

  Not giving Lettitia a chance to protest, he strode toward the door with her in tow.

  Moments later, Mick forcefully banged on Mrs. Tooley’s flat door. When the landlady opened it a few timorous inches, he shoved his hand against the door and pushed his way inside, dragging Lettitia along with him.

  “I got a few more questions for you,” he said without preamble, handing Mrs. Tooley another half-crown. “Did Emmaline ever mention the fact that she might be coming into some money?”

  Nodding her head, the landlady cackled. “That’s all ’er and the other one ever talked about, ’ow they was going to open a whorehouse for the West End swells.” Mrs. Tooley’s eyes narrowed, a malicious expression on her wrinkled face. “The only thing them two ’ad to look forward to was a life of gin or a death in the Thames. No whore ever leaves Whitechapel alive.”

  “Did Emmaline tell you where she was going to get the money to open this, um—” Mick cleared his throat— “house of ill-repute?” When Mrs. Tooley shook her head, he continued with the next question. “You mentioned ‘the other one.’ Who exactly are you referring to?”

  When the landlady held out her hand, Mick dutifully deposited a coin onto her open palm. After pocketing the half-crown, the older woman said, “ ‘The other one’ is that tart Mary Kelly, that’s ’oo.”

  “Hot damn. I knew it,” Mick said.

  Not bothering to say good-bye, Mick grabbed Lettitia by the arm and shepherded her back to the hallway. He then very purposely strode toward the main entrance of the building. Lettitia had trouble keeping up with his long-legged stride.

  “For heaven’s sake, why are you in such a hurry?” she railed at him once they reached the street.

  “Because I’ve only got four more days, that’s why.” Swinging an arm, he hailed Babu, who had parked the carriage half a block away.

  Mick’s air of heightened excitement unnerved her greatly. “When you were questioning Mrs. Tooley, I had the distinct impression that you know Mary Kelly. Although how you could have made her acquaintance, I have no idea.”

  “I don’t know her. I know of her,” Mick clarified. “And what I know is that Mary Kelly will be the last Ripper victim. I say ‘will be’ because she hasn’t been murdered yet. More importantly, because she was obviously involved in this blackmail scheme with Emmaline, it means that Jack the Ripper is one of three men: Sir Willoughby DeWitt, Lord Wortham, or your father, Alfred Merryweather.”

  “How dare you even suggest such a vile thing!”

  Chapter 9

  Mick quickly caught up to Lettitia.

  Grabbing her by the elbow, he swung her around to face him. “Listen, Tisha. I know that you don’t want to hear this, but all the evidence points to—”

  “Unhand me, sir!”

  Her imperious tone caused a trio of cigar-smoking, gin-swilling loafers to speculatively give them the once-over. Worried that they were attracting way too much attention, Mick opened the carriage door.

  “We can continue this discussion on the way to St. Ursula’s,” he told her in a lowered voice, gesturing to the opened door.

  Lettitia didn’t budge.

  “What business have you at St. Ursula’s?”

  “I want to question Sir Willoughby about the blackmail letter. See if he can account for his whereabouts on the day Emmaline disappeared.”

  If looks could kill, he’d be a dead man. Lettitia made no effort to hide the fact that she was mad as hell. Finished giving him the evil eye, she flounced into the carriage, shrugging off his attempts to assist her. Resigned to the fact that he was in for a no-holds-barred ass-chewing, Mick told Babu where they were headed before climbing inside.

  Several minutes passed in stone cold silence.

  When Lettitia finally deigned to speak to him, Mick braced himself, hoping that he had the stamina to brave the storm.

  “If, as you say, one of the three—” she paused, the word obviously distasteful to her—“blackmail victims is, indeed, Jack the Ripper, what motive could he possibly have had for slaying the four unfortunate women who have since been murdered?”

  Mick had to hand it to her; it was a damned good question.

  Having watched a Ripper documentary on The History Channel a couple of weeks ago, he knew that, over the course of three months, Jack the Ripper had gone on a killing spree that put the whole city of London on high alert.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Could be any number of reasons. Maybe he’s a sicko who gets off on killing women. Or maybe he’s sexually dysfunctional. You know, one of those guys who was emotionally abused by his mother.” He shrugged. “In all honesty, I won’t know until I catch the perp.”

  The color drained from Lettitia’s face.

  “I want you to return to the future immediately,” she hissed, the words punctuated with a steely-eyed glare.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Mick shot back, pissed off that she’d even suggest such a thing given that her sister’s murderer was still at large. Not to mention they had a thing going. At least, he’d thought they had a thing going.

  Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “If my memory serves me correctly, sir, yesterday you couldn’t wait to depart for the future.”

  “A lot has happened since then.” Mick leaned forward in his seat. “Let me tell you something: the Ripper case was never solved. Never. The bastard got away with killing five, actually six, women if you count Emmaline. One hundred and twenty-five years later, amateur sleuths are still trying to figure out whodunit. God, Tisha. Do you have any idea how big this is? I’ve actually got a shot at catching freakin’ Jack the Ripper. It’s the murder case to end all murder cases.”

  In the tense silence that ensued, Mick had the distinct impression that he had just gone from the proverbial frying pan into the burn-your-bridges fire.

  “This is all about your vanity, isn’t it?”

  He reared his head, the question coming out of left field. “That is not only untrue, it’s hitting below the belt.”

  “Oh, really? From what I’ve observed these last several days, you are quick to heap all manner of ignominy upon innocent individuals,” she accused, her body visibly shaking. “When all is said and done, when you have returned to the comforts of your own time and place, who will pick up the pieces of our broken lives?”

  “Listen, one of those three men that Emmaline was blackmailing murdered her in cold blood,” he countered. “I know it, and no matter how much you protest to the contrary, you know it.”

  “I know no such thing!”

  “Don’t you want Emmaline’s murderer brought to justice?”

  “Yes, of course. But not at the sake of ruining the reputations of three honorable men.”

  Mick had to snicker at that one. “If they were so damned ‘honorable,’ how come Emmaline and her pal Mary Kelly were blackmailing them?” He leaned back in his seat. Crossing his arms over his chest, he couldn’t resist shooting her a confident smirk. “Believe me, it’s damned near impossible to blackmail a saint.”

  “I… I have no idea why Emmaline would engage in so… so unseemly a pursuit,” Lettitia sputtered. “Perhaps it is best if the answer to that question go to the grave with her.”

  “You don’t want to know, do you? To even contemplate that Sir Willoughby or Lord Wortham or Daddy Warbucks has engaged in illicit, unseemly activities would upset your neat little Victorian world order.”

  “I will no longer listen to this!”

  Hearing the indignation in her voice and seeing the outraged expression on her face, Mick knew that he was getting nowhere fast. If he kept pushing, Lettitia would turn on him for sure. And right now, he needed her cooperation to gain access to his three suspects. Without an NYPD shield to open doors i
n this case, he had a real handicap. Just one of many handicaps. For starters, he didn’t have any search warrants. He didn’t have twenty-first century crime-solving technology at his disposal. And he didn’t have a single eyewitness. All he had was a gut feeling and four days.

  Four days. Damn. He needed more time.

  “This business with the time portal… it, um, it has to do with the phases of the moon, right?”

  Despite the fact that he’d asked the question in an innocuous tone, Lettitia shot him a wary glance. “The time portal can only be accessed during the seven-day period when the moon is at its fullest. I believe that I already explained that to you.”

  “Yeah, well, what would happen if I stayed longer?”

  “Then your stay will be a long one, indeed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The time portal works in conjunction with the moon’s magnetic energy and the body’s animal magnetism,” she explained with a dismissive wave of her gloved hand. “How, I do not know. I’m not even certain that Madame Mazursky has the full answer to that. But I do know that if you remain here beyond the current moon phase, you will be unable to return to the future.”

  Mick took a moment to consider his options.

  “Okay, scratch that off the list. I’m just going to have to crack this one in the next four days. Nothing like a looming deadline to get a man motivated.” As the carriage came to a shuddering halt, he peered out the side window. “Great, it looks like we’re here. Time to get the ball rolling.”

  “Must you be so gleeful?”

  About to disembark from the carriage, he instead turned toward Lettitia and said, “In light of your close association with the suspect, it’d probably be a good idea if you stayed in the carriage while I question Sir Willoughby.”

  “I have no intention of staying in the carriage. In fact, I intend to assist you in your investigation.”

  “Come again?”

  Lettitia straightened her shoulders, her rigid posture giving off a distinctly martial air. “While you are determined to prove that Sir Willoughby or Lord Wortham or, heaven forbid, my father killed Emmaline, I am equally determined to prove that, to a man, they are innocent of the vile crime of which they stand accused. Which is why I shall be assisting you in the investigation.”