A Love For All Time

by Chloe Douglas

  “To be honest, I don’t think that’s such a—”

  “Furthermore, I shall be assisting you as an equal partner.”

  He vehemently shook his head. “Uh-uh. Nothing doing.”

  “Oh, but I insist,” she said with a saccharine smile, the likes of which made the hairs on the back of Mick’s neck stand on end.

  “Insist all you want; it ain’t gonna happen.”

  At hearing that, her insincere smile widened. “Need I remind you that I have it within my power to keep you here, in this time and place, until the end of your natural born days?”

  “Shit. You’re threatening me.”

  “How very astute.”

  Damn it. The lady had him backed against a wall, and she knew it.

  A tense silence crackled between them as Mick considered his options.

  “All right,” he grudgingly consented a few seconds later. “You can assist me on one condition: once we find out who killed Emmaline, it doesn’t matter who it is, we turn him over to the police. Agreed?”

  Lettitia nodded her consent. “Agreed.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get this murder investigation started.”

  To his surprise, Lettitia extended her right hand. “Still friends?”

  Surprised by the conciliatory gesture, Mick couldn’t help himself—he smiled broadly.

  “Yeah, still friends,” he told her, taking hold of her gloved hand. For one crazy-ass second, he was tempted to kiss her. Until he remembered that Lettitia was engaged to be married. To a murder suspect, no less. One who just might be Jack the Ripper.

  God, could things get any more complicated?

  A few minutes later, as they walked through the front entrance of St. Ursula’s, Mick detected an unusual odor in the air.

  “What is that smell?” he asked, unable to place the sickly sweet scent.

  Lettitia lifted her nostrils and took a ladylike whiff. “That is the chloroform that is used to sedate the surgical patients.” She pointed to a set of sturdy double doors. “The operating arena is through there.”

  “Chloroform, huh? They should be giving it to those poor people in the syphilis ward. I’ve got to tell you, I had a real scare yesterday when I inadvertently peeked through the door.”

  “It is heart wrenching to see patients in the late stages of the disease,” Lettitia said in a grave tone of voice. “A good many of them go mad. The disease eats away at their brain.”

  “Maybe it’ll cheer you up to know that in a few decades, with the discovery of penicillin, gonorrhea and syphilis will be completely treatable.”

  “Small consolation for those poor souls who live in this day and age,” she remarked. “However, I do envy you living in the twenty-first century with all the marvels of your age. Although my journey through Madame Mazursky’s time portal was brief, I was astonished by what I saw.”

  “Believe me, it’s not all peaches and—” Mick stopped mid-sentence when he suddenly realized that someone was standing directly behind them. Someone who’d been privy to everything they’d just said.

  Evidently Lettitia realized it as well, and the two of them turned in unison. To Mick’s acute unease, he discovered Sister Gillian standing sentry, a stupefied expression on her face.

  “Hey, how ya doing, Sister Gillian?” He gave the woman a big, toothy grin. “Miss Merryweather and I were just talking about, um… Jules Verne,” Mick said at the last, not quite certain when the famous writer had published his time travel stories, but thinking it was sometime during the latter half of the nineteenth century.

  “Yes, indeed,” Lettitia piped in, sounding and looking guilty as hell. “Detective Giovanni was telling me all about Mister Verne’s, er, latest literary endeavor.”

  Sister Gillian, in her starched white headdress that made her look like a Mother Superior that Mick had once had in Catholic grade school, gave both of them a considering glance. “I have never read any of Mister Verne’s novels. Although I understand that he is a most imaginative writer,” she remarked before excusing herself.

  As Sister Gillian made her way down the hall, Mick let loose with a theatrical sigh of relief, wiping imaginary sweat from his brow. “Whew, that was a close call.”

  “Indeed, it was. In the future, we should refrain from making any references to the time portal. At least while we’re in public.”

  “Gotcha. Now, how about leading the way to Sir Willoughby’s office?”

  Lettitia gestured toward an adjacent hallway. “This way.”

  “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you about this ‘Sir’ business. So, what gives? It seems like every other man in England was born with a ‘Sir’ in front of his first name.”

  “Oh, that is not a hereditary title. Sir Willoughby was awarded knighthood because of his philanthropic work.”

  “And what about the police commissioner, Sir Charles?”

  “I presume because of his illustrious career at Scotland Yard.”

  Mick snorted derisively. “Illustrious? Yeah, right.”

  After turning down another hallway, they stopped in front of a closed door framed with elaborately carved woodwork. Affixed to the massive door was an engraved nameplate that read SIR WILLOUGHBY DEWITT, SURGEON.

  “Hey, you forgot to mention that Sir Willoughby was a doctor.”

  “I don’t recall that you inquired,” Lettitia replied. “If you must know, Sir Willoughby served as an army surgeon in the First Afghan War. That is where he met Sister Gillian. It is a most romantic story.”

  “Which I don’t have time for.” Mick banged on the door. “In case you forgot, Sir Willoughby is a murder suspect.”

  “I can assure you that I have not forgotten. Speaking of which, as your new partner, what precisely will my duties entail?”

  “That’s right. You are my new partner, aren’t you?” Mick reached inside his frock coat and removed his notebook and pencil. Handing them to her, he said, “I want you to sit quietly in the corner and take notes.”

  She opened her mouth to protest at the same instant that Sir Willoughby opened the door.

  “Ah, Miss Merryweather! Detective Giovanni! What a delightful surprise,” Sir Willoughby exclaimed with bluff good cheer. “Please, come in.” With a flourish of his arm, he motioned the two of them into his office.

  Mick took a moment to get the lay of the land, his gaze drawn to the large framed photograph of Queen Victoria which hung on the wall. Talk about a woman in desperate need of a makeover.

  Sir Willoughby motioned them to have a seat in the two chairs positioned in front of his oversized mahogany desk. “I trust, sir, that you have sufficiently recovered from your injuries?”

  “I’m doing fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “This spate of warm weather is a welcome respite, is it not? Quite lovely. Assuming one doesn’t mind the interminable fog that hovers over the city.”

  “Yeah, lovely,” Mick said automatically. Then, because there wasn’t any sense beating around the bush, he said, “We’ve recently learned that you were being blackmailed by Emmaline Merryweather and Mary Kelly.”

  Sir Willoughby’s naturally florid face turned a few shades redder. “I will have you know, sir, that I have devoted my life to rescuing Whitechapel’s fallen women. I founded this hospital for the sole purpose of offering medical care and spiritual comfort to London’s destitute. As a deeply religious man, I see it as my duty to offer aid and protection to these poor unfortunate girls, many of whom have been vilely seduced. Alas, Miss Merryweather’s sister is one of the unfortunates of whom I speak.”

  Mick’s jaw slackened, thinking that had to have been the most long-winded, evasive answer he’d ever heard.

  Deciding the situation required a change in tactics, Mick rose to his feet. Nonchalantly, like he didn’t have a care in the world, he strolled back and forth in front of Sir Willoughby’s massive wooden desk. After a few seconds, he came to a halt and, splaying his palms on the desk top, leaned toward the suspect. It was a
pose intentionally meant to intimidate.

  “Sounds to me like you’re one of those men who get a thrill out of rescuing pretty whores.”

  “I can assure you that he rescues the ugly ones as well,” Lettitia asserted, quick to come to the doctor’s defense.

  Pissed that Lettitia had decided to play “good cop,” Mick shoved himself away from the desk.

  Visibly relieved, Sir Willoughby favored Lettitia with an ingratiating smile. “Thank you, my dear. However, I am more than capable of speaking in my own defense.”

  “Then how about defending yourself against a charge of blackmail?” Mick shot back, needing to get the interrogation back on track. “You up for that?”

  Rather than answer, Sir Willoughby clasped his hands together on top of the desk. From experience, Mick knew that the man needed some time to collect his thoughts, faced as he was with the dilemma that all perps faced—whether to tell the truth or fabricate a bald-faced lie.

  As he waited for Sir Willoughby’s reply, Mick strolled over to a side table and proceeded to examine a tray chock full of medicine bottles. Idly picking up a couple of bottles, he read the labels: Balsam of Copaiba, Chloride of Zinc, Potassium Iodide, Nitrate of Silver.

  “I admit that Emmaline made several attempts at blackmail,” Sir Willoughby said after a long, drawn-out pause. “All of which I spurned out of hand. The charges she leveled against me were patently untrue.”

  “Oh? And what exactly did she allege?”

  “Really, sir! You go too far,” Lettitia chastised. “Did Sir Willoughby not tell you that there was no merit to Emmaline’s ill-advised imputations?”

  Standing behind Sir Willoughby, Mick angrily made a zipping motion across his lips with his thumb and index finger. To his frustration, Lettitia shook her head, silently conveying that she had no idea what that meant.

  Storming over to Lettitia’s chair, he said through clenched teeth, “While I appreciate your note-taking, maybe now would be a good time for you to—” At hearing a loud knock on the closed door, Mick broke off in mid-sentence.

  “Enter,” Sir Willoughby called out. When, a split-second later, Sister Gillian stepped into the office, he immediately shot to his feet. A red-faced Jack-in-the-Box. “Ah, my dear. The very person I wish to see. Always like a beam of warm sunshine whenever you cross a threshold.”

  “Sir, you put a blush to my cheeks with such praise,” Sister Gillian replied, gracing her husband with a sweetly demonstrative smile. “Forgive me for interrupting, but your presence is required in the operating theater.”

  “Yes, yes! I’m on my way.” Sir Willoughby turned toward Mick. “I trust, Mister Giovanni, that I have satisfactorily answered your query.”

  “Actually, you haven’t. I’ve still got a few more questions for you.”

  Hearing that, Sir Willoughby removed an ornate pocket watch from his vest pocket and opened it. “I’m afraid that time does not permit me to further engage in—”

  “This won’t take long,” Mick interjected. “I just need to know where you were on the night of August the seventh.”

  “I have utterly no idea,” the other man confessed with a shrug. “And to be quite honest, sir, I do not see that it is any of your concern. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a patient waiting.”

  That said, he stormed from the room, with Sister Gillian hurriedly following in her husband’s wake.

  Mick cursed under his breath. The interrogation had been shot to hell by Sister Gillian’s untimely interruption. Which meant that he’d have to come back tomorrow and try again. And that meant Sir Willoughby would have all night to concoct an alibi.

  “Come on. We’re outta here,” he unceremoniously informed Lettitia as he strode toward the door. “We need to pay a visit to your loverboy Lord Worthless.”

  * * *

  As Mick wordlessly handed Lettitia into the carriage, she sensed that he was none too pleased with her.

  Her intuition was proven correct when, his voice resonating with a banked anger, Mick said, “For future reference, when I do this—” using his thumb and forefinger, he made a slashing motion across his lips—“it means zip it. As in shut your mouth. Pronto.”

  While Lettitia knew that the reprimand was meant to subjugate her to his authority, the moment that Mick began to move his fingers across his mouth, such considerations seemed wholly irrelevant, her attention drawn, not to the words spewing from Mick’s lips, but to his mouth. Against her will, she stared, wholly riveted by the sight of those smooth lips, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top one.

  Unwillingly, she recalled how, in this very carriage, those lips had pressed against hers and how Mick’s mouth—firm, yet tender—had captured her lips in a kiss that had been exquisite in its ardor and sublime in its passion.

  Silently chastising herself for entertaining such shameless thoughts, she focused her gaze on a less rousing sight, that being the back of the carriage seat slightly to the left of Mick’s face. Keeping her gaze focused on that uninspiring bit of puffed velvet, she said, “As an equal partner in this investigation, I have as much right to openly express my opinions as you do.”

  “But not in front of the suspect,” he countered in the measured voice that one would use to speak to a half-wit. “There’s an art to questioning a murder suspect. It’s like a finely orchestrated piece of music. You don’t mess with Bach or Beethoven. Capiche?”

  Hearing that, her gaze swung back in his direction. “Why do you get to be the maestro? Why can’t I ask a question or two during the interrogation?”

  “Because you don’t believe that any of the three suspects is capable of having killed Emmaline. Whereas I happen to know that any one of them was capable of killing her,” he said with an air of annoying superiority. “Okay, the next stop is Lord Wortham’s. Look out, Percival, here I come.”

  “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

  “Hey, I’m not gonna lie. It’s almost as good as sex.”

  The brash remark incited an atmospheric change; the air between them was instantly charged with a palpable awareness.

  “Scratch that last remark, will ya? I was, um, way out of line,” Mick muttered, busying himself with straightening the cuffs on his shirt.

  Taking his remark as an apology of sorts, Lettitia wordlessly nodded her head.

  Uncomfortable with the silence that ensued, she began to fiddle with the watch pinned to the front of her tweed Directoire jacket, her fingers awkwardly unfastening the time-piece. Sliding the steel pin out of the navy fabric, she reattached it a bit lower on her bosom. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Mick staring at her watch. Intently. So intently, it suddenly dawned on her that it was not her watch that held his fascination, but the rounded curve of her breast.

  Fumbling with her reticule, she removed an embroidered handkerchief which she used to fan her face. “I was just thinking that… that Sir Willoughby was quite correct. It is unseasonable warm, is it not?”

  “Yeah, I’m hot, all right.” As he spoke, Mick pulled his Ulster overcoat over his lap.

  About to comment on the fact that his words were at odds with his actions, Lettitia held her tongue. The last time she’d remarked on this strange idiosyncrasy of his, he’d reacted in a most peculiar manner.

  As the silent seconds passed, Lettitia told herself that it was simply the confined space of the carriage that made her so acutely aware of Mick’s person. After all, the man was sitting only two feet away from her, an intimately close distance. How could she not notice his hands, or his mouth, or the way the sunlight played upon the silver highlights in his hair? She would’ve had to been blind not to—

  “I like Sir Willoughby for this murder,” Mick said abruptly. “Let’s face it. Being a surgeon, he had means. Being the self-proclaimed patron saint of Whitechapel whores, he had opportunity. And, seeing as how he was being blackmailed, he had motive.”

  By “Whitechapel whores,” Lettitia knew that he referred to Emmaline. Beautiful, headstrong, fo
olish Emmaline. Murdered in cold blood, her body had been brutally—

  No! She would not allow herself to think about that gruesome photograph.

  “Sir Willoughby did not kill Emmaline,” she asserted. “Having interviewed him, I am convinced of that.”

  “Well, then, there’s always your father.”

  “Who would not raise a hand against his own child.”

  “And last, but certainly not least, there’s your beloved, Lord Wortham.”

  “He is not my beloved,” she snapped, wondering why the man took such delight in goading her.

  “Silly me.” Mick slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I keep forgetting that.”

  Refusing to respond to his theatrics, Lettitia said instead, “If, as you say, Mary Kelly is the Ripper’s intended last victim, we must warn her that her life is in mortal danger.”

  “I agree. But how are you going to do that? You don’t even know her.”

  “As it so happens, I am acquainted with Miss Kelly, having met her two years ago when she was being treated at St. Ursula’s for skin lesions. In fact, through my volunteer work at St. Ursula’s, I was acquainted with all four of the women who met their tragic end at the hands of Jack the Ripper.”

  “Which makes Sir Willoughby look guiltier by the second,” Mick said.

  “Need I remind you that hundreds of unfortunate women have been patients at St. Ursula’s? It is merely a coincidence that all of the slain women received medical treatment there. Why, only last week I read in The Times that all four of the Ripper’s victims had been regular patrons of The Britannia Pub.”

  Mick shot her an interested glance. “Is that the sort of establishment your father or Lord Wortham might frequent?”

  “Hardly,” she replied disdainfully. “It is a disreputable tavern that caters to the… the…” Shuddering, Lettitia could not think of a word loathsome enough.