And the odor! The mushroomy stench of moth-eaten wool was so pungent it made her gag, as if whole colonies of dead insects had been decaying in the scratchy fabric.
To make matters worse, Toby and Collin had the audacity to look pleased.
“God’s whiskers, Katherine!” Collin’s red eyebrows shot up. “We couldn’t allow you to go as yourself, now could we? Respectable young ladies do not attend murder inquests! The Duke would have our heads on a silver platter if he discovered we escorted you to an inquest in the East End. Bad enough in the West End, but in Whitechapel? He’ll boil us in oil if he finds out.”
“This has nothing to do with the Duke, and you know it,” Katie harrumphed, plucking at the layers of moth-eaten clothing. “You two idiots made me wear these stupid clothes on purpose!”
“Now why would we do that?” Collin wrinkled his brow.
“To torture me!”
“This is the thanks we get then, is it, lass?” Toby clenched every muscle in his face not to burst out laughing. Katie looked a fright. They’d been successful in disguising her as an ugly, old crone. And a hunchback one at that. But if he showed any sign of amusement at her bedraggled, old lady appearance, there’d be no end to her railing and fuming. Yet the effort to keep an impassive face cost Toby a painful side stitch. He had made her wear raggedy, uncomfortable clothing deliberately. And rightly so. She had tricked him into giving his word not to tell Major Brown what she knew about the murdered girl. And worse, into promising to help her investigate a phantom killer named Jack. How Katie had pulled it off, he still didn’t know. But he would get to the bottom of it. Katie was no more clairvoyant than a spoke in the wheel of this carriage. And yet . . .
“Why couldn’t I go dressed as a boy?” Katie demanded. “Why an old woman? This isn’t fair! A grizzly bear costume would be more comfortable than this ridiculous outfit!”
“Wouldn’t complain were I you, Mistress Kate,” Toby countered. “It was you who made the jellied eel to keep Major Brown in the dark. ’Tis folly for a lass to attend a murder inquest. T’aint ladylike, my poppet.” Toby put a heavy emphasis on the last two words. He would honor his end of the bargain, but he didn’t have to make it easy for her. Making her miserable took some of the sting out of being duped. When she had told him what he had written on the parchment hidden in the Duke’s stuffed vulture, it was as if a poisonous serpent had reared up and dug its fangs into his soul.
“I’m not your poppet. Whatever that is,” Katie fumed as the carriage bounced and shimmied over uneven cobblestones. Ever since she told him what was written on the message inside the Duke’s stuffed bird, Toby had been treating her in a haughty, condescending manner. It was driving her crazy. She glanced down at her moth-eaten skirt, mended in patches. Toby had insisted she wear extra woolen petticoats beneath the already oversized skirt, which, combined with the Hunchback of Notre Dame jacket, made her feel like a trussed-up sausage ready to burst. She was hot and itchy, and droplets of sweat were beading across her nose; the wiry veil hanging down, prickly as thorns, was secured so tightly round her throat, she couldn’t scratch her face without gouging her skin.
“You look like a mongrel pup with that hang-dog boat race of yours,” Toby said, chuckling despite himself. “A caged mongrel pup beneath that fishnet veil.” But his voice was gentle when he said, “Look here, Miss Katherine. Collin is right. We couldn’t let you go as yourself, now could we? Half o’ bloomin’ London will be there, and I’ll not have ’em gawking at”—he was about to say your impossibly pretty face — “the Duke’s goddaughter. As if you were first prize at a ring toss. Come now, lass. My old granny’s bag of fruit looks right lovely on you.”
“Bag of—”
“Suit. And those church pews are comfy, I’d wager?” He pointed at Katie’s shoes.
Katie glanced down at the soft leather shoes and conceded the point. “They are definitely more comfortable than anything else I’ve worn in this—” she was about to say century, but quickly amended it to “country.”
Toby shook his head. “You ham shanks are an odd lot.”
“We Yanks aren’t half as odd as you . . . you . . . what rhymes with Brits? Nit-wits? No one here knows anything about comfy shoes.” Her favorite red high-top sneakers were waiting for her a century or so into the future.
“Katherine!” Collin looked aghast. “Proper young ladies do not go around berating their host countries. I do not know what they teach you in the United States of America, but here in England young ladies are taught proper manners. There’s a reason the sun never sets on the British Empire. A very good reason. We are a nation of advanced intellect and superior contrivances, such as shoes! I’ll have you know our cobblers are the finest in the world.”
“Without a Brussels sprout.” Toby shot Katie a mocking smile. “Without a doubt, my poppet.” He winked at her and felt a spark of perverse satisfaction when she let out a howling curse.
“Most unladylike,” Toby tsked, feigning disapproval. But in truth, it was one of the things he fancied about Katie. She could swear like soup and gravy without even blushing, and her brazen way of looking him in the eye with both a challenge and a hint of vulnerability just about did him in.
Toby tore his eyes from Katie’s veiled ones. It unnerved him, this attraction he felt for her. It was dangerous. She was dangerous. And not because she claimed to have the power to foresee the future. There wasn’t a Cockney alive that did not believe in soothsaying. It wasn’t Katie’s self-proclaimed ability to see the future that disturbed him, but her power to read his own secrets that unnerved him. And the feeling that he was being pulled toward her . . . as if she were reeling him in. A hapless fish on a taut line.
Watching now as Katie fussed and plucked at her frumpy clothing, sitting in the carriage seat across from him, Toby told himself that he’d been right to disguise her as a hobbled old crone. She could no more go to a murder inquest looking like the Queen of the May than he could go dressed as the Prince of Wales. And since he couldn’t very well make her invisible, the old funeral dress, the veiled hat, and the hump sprouting from her shoulders were just the thing. It’s for her own good, Toby assured himself.
But the truth of the matter went deeper. The protectiveness he felt toward her was out of all proportion to his designated role as general dogsbody to the Twyfords. True, he couldn’t stand the thought of others gawking at her beautiful face as they had at the Lyceum Theatre, but this was deeper than mere jealousy or attraction. There was something powerful drawing him to her. Something otherworldly. He knew he had to protect her but didn’t know why. And he knew just as surely that whatever attraction he felt for her, whatever bound them, was a gossamer thread that would need to be severed. His feelings for her could not be acted upon. And not because she’s the goddaughter of a Duke, and I’m the illegitimate son of a Cockney lacemaker. There was something more, something almost preternatural being played out here. But what? And for what purpose?
Staring at her, Toby was not aware that he was scowling when he said to Collin, “Oughtn’t to have let her talk us into this, Collin. It’s a sad business when you and I allow ourselves to be bullied by a mere chit of a ham shank barely out of the schoolroom.”
“Bullied?” Katie clamped angry eyes on him. “We had a deal, remember? A jellied eel.”
“Toby’s right, Katherine!” Collin nodded vigorously, his Adam’s apple shooting up and down his freckled neck like a pinball. “You are barely out of the nursery. You haven’t even had a season, nor been presented at court! You have no business attending a murder inquest.”
“A mere babe in the woods,” Toby taunted, pleased when Katie pulled a face at him behind her wiry veil.
“A babe in the woods who is going to catch the most notorious murderer in the annals of British history!” cried Katie indignantly. But by the dark look Toby shot her, she knew she’d said too much. “Er . . . I mean . . . I had another . . . a . . . er . . . premonition.”
Katie took
a deep breath. She needed to be on her guard. She couldn’t let their condescending attitudes get under her skin, prickling her like the yards of itchy wool she was swaddled in. It wasn’t their fault they were born into a century where girls were considered inferior. But even so, their chauvinist attitudes—especially Toby’s—would try the patience of a saint. And Katie was no saint.
Wanting to think about anything other than her itchy, smelly, lumpy clothes and the two infuriating boys sitting across from her, Katie threw open the carriage window. She hooked her elbow over the edge and stuck her veiled head out. The morning breeze felt blissfully cool as it raked through the fishnet veil against her hot cheeks. And even though these frumpy clothes Toby had made her wear were as prickly as hedge thorns, she had to admit it was a fairly good—if pug-ugly—disguise. But next time, Katie vowed, she’d go dressed as a boy.
Up and down the street, pushcart vendors shouted their wares. “Knives! Get yer knives sharpened here!” And “Strawberries! Fresh, ripe strawberries!”
There, on the corner, was a costermonger pulling a wheelbarrow filled with turnips. And up ahead, an omnibus clattered to a stop at the curb to pick up passengers. In no time at all, Katie forgot her irritation and smiled at the nineteenth-century scenes that were unfolding before her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-four
The Death Inquest
The Coroner’s Court for the death inquest of Mary Ann Nichols was being held at the Working Lads Institute in Whitechapel Road. Outside the brick building an excited crowd had gathered. It was Saturday morning, September 2. A cool breeze ruffled the black garments of the people standing in line waiting to be admitted.
A block away, the Duke’s carriage disgorged the three teenagers, who hastened past a row of hansom cabs lining the curb. The horses chomped feed from nosebags tied around their necks.
“What’s that?” Katie asked, jerking to a halt as a giant bicycle came barreling down the street toward them. Powered by a man pedaling furiously, the odd vehicle had a single front wheel and two enormous rear wheels. A yellow-striped awning with fringe shaded the driver’s face from the sun. Katie laughed. The contraption reminded her of the paddle boats shaped like swans in the Boston Public Garden’s lagoon.
Collin frowned at her. “It’s a velocipede, of course.”
Toby, too, shot her a curious look, so Katie hastened to add, “We don’t have centipedes . . . er . . . velocipedes . . . back home.”
“Odd,” Toby said, his voice low. “They were invented in the United States. Your President Cleveland rides one. Not a week goes by when a photograph of him pedaling a velocipede doesn’t make front-page news.”
Kate shrugged and charged forward. So Grover Cleveland is president of the United States right now, she thought. But for the life of her, Katie couldn’t remember anything about President Cleveland except that he summered on Cape Cod.
Drawing closer to the front entrance of the Working Lads Institute, Katie noted that there were two separate lines of people queuing up outside the front doors.
“Looks to be a lot of ticketed folk waiting to be accommodated, to say nothing of the public,” Toby motioned to the two lines. “Far more than would regularly show up at an inquest. But the victim’s death was unusual, and the victim was female. Let’s hope Major Brown is as good as his word. We’re to find the constable on duty and give him our names. Wait here.” Toby exchanged glances with Collin and lowered his voice, “Don’t let our twist ’n’ swirl out of your sight.”
Before disappearing into the crowd, Toby turned to Katie. “Remember, luv. You’re supposed to be a feeble old woman, so squiggle your eyes and don’t forget to limp. I brought along this curried egg so you’d smell like an old person.” He slipped something into Katie’s pocket, winked at her, and scooted away through the crowd.
Katie reached into her pocket. If it was a curried egg, she was going to smush it in Toby’s face when he returned. But when she tugged it out, it was nothing more than a small, round sachet tied on top with string. “What is this?” She wrinkled her nose at the rotten egg smell and held it out for Collin’s inspection.
“A camphor baglet. Don’t you have those in America? They’re used in wardrobes to kill moth larvae. It’s what old clothes always smell like.” Collin, too, wrinkled his nose at the pungent camphor odor.
Just then, Toby darted back through the crowd, followed by a blue uniformed police officer with a droopy moustache.
“Ma’am,” the officer nodded politely to Katie, believing her to be an elderly matron. “Name’s Grub, ma’am. Officer Grub. I’ll be taking you in along wi’ me, orders o’ Major Brown. Better take my arm,” he suggested. “It’s a densely packed crowd today.”
Katie clutched Officer Grub’s proffered elbow and, remembering to hobble, followed his lead through the throng of people waiting in line, all of them staring expectantly at the entrance door.
“Make way! Make way!” Officer Grub shouted, waving his wooden truncheon. Katie thought of the children’s picture book Make Way for Ducklings and chuckled. Remembering that a murder inquest was no laughing matter, Katie pursed her lips primly.
And yet, Katie thought, glancing over her shoulder at the people queuing up all the way around the block. All these people were technically dead . . . or will be by the time I return. Long dead. So whether she laughed or not, it really didn’t matter. Nothing matters here because it’s already happened! Expressions like “make way” and contraptions like velocipedes were distant memories in the twenty-first century. If Katie managed to save Beatrice or any of the other Ripper victims, they would all still be dead for decades when Katie returned home. And Collin? Could she save him, too?
The other Toby, from the twenty-first century, had told her that she could change small things, tweak the past here and there, but she couldn’t drastically change the future. And even if she were to change the past, the ultimate outcome of major world events would not change one bit.
But if that’s the case, why did I return to this century? Why bother to catch Jack the Ripper at all? And yet she was here. No amount of logic could have dissuaded Katie from returning. She was here for a reason. She felt sure of that. The fissure in the ancient rock that was the London Stone had enabled her to travel back in time. There was a reason the Stone had sent her here. But what reason and why, she wasn’t sure.
Katie took a deep breath and told herself she had to stay focused. She scanned the expectant crowd, and realized with a jolt that Officer Grub was speaking to her.
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but it’s not a nice crowd, not by any manner of means. Step lively. There’s a bit o’ mud. There yer go.” The front doors parted at the sound of his commanding voice and the sight of his blue uniform. Once through the doors, Officer Grub marched them through a courtyard along a narrow, stone-flagged path, up a set of stairs, and through another set of doors into a raftered room that stood bleached in sunlight. Black-clad men in silk top hats were talking in subdued tones at the back of the room. The hushed but excited atmosphere reminded Katie of the Lyceum Theatre just before the curtain went up.
Officer Grub led them down the center aisle to an empty bench fitted against a whitewashed wall, several rows back from a semicircular raised platform. Hunkered at angles on this platform stood a trestle table, a wooden podium, and two Windsor-back chairs. As Katie sank down onto the bench facing the podium, Toby and Collin settled beside her, wedging her tightly between themselves like human shields.
Katie squirmed in an effort to negotiate some elbow room between the boys, but gave up and glanced around. The temporary courtroom was a big room with long, arched windows along an upper gallery running halfway around the room, like in a church. Katie half expected to hear an organ ring out, or a choir burst forth in song. Instead, a bell clanged, doors flew open overhead, and a swarm of people rushed forward pushing and shoving.
At the sound of their stampeding feet, Toby, too, glanced up and watched the trample of people elbowing
one another for empty seats until the balcony was crammed to capacity. Their faces belonged to every class of people, young, old, rich, poor—and all united, Toby thought with a twinge of irritation, in their bloodlust and morbid curiosity. They were here to take in every last gory detail of a young girl’s brutal murder.
Squished in between the two boys, Katie was thinking similar thoughts, only with a different perspective. In her own world, courtroom TV, crime dramas, and CSI shows were primetime hits. Katie had watched endless reruns of the famous Casey Anthony murder trial, so she understood the inquisitive faces peering down from the gallery above. People are drawn to murder no matter what century they live in, Katie told herself.
From a distance came the sound of a second wave of pattering feet, followed by a full-blown mad dash as the back doors banged open and a new horde of people stormed into the room, hastily snatching up every available seat.
Katie craned her neck around. Was that Reverend Pinker plunking himself down on a seat in the back row?
Collin nudged Katie to get her attention. “Here comes the jury.”
Katie swiveled back around, facing forward. With the courtroom crammed to overflowing, the smell of sweat wafting through the air was so pungent Katie had to remind herself that deodorant hadn’t been invented yet. Most people bathed only once a week.
“And over there, next to the coroner’s platform,” Toby said, pointing to a roped-off area, “are the witnesses.”
Katie looked across the room to where Toby was pointing. Huddled together behind a rope partition stood several people peering around nervously and shuffling from foot to foot. Katie’s gaze was drawn to a girl of about nineteen, who stood in the front and looked very self-satisfied. Of all the witnesses she alone appeared to be relishing the excitement. And she had obviously taken great care with her appearance. Her shiny auburn hair was done up on the crown of her head in a dramatic mound of curls braided with paper flowers and butterflies. There was something familiar about her. . . .
Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller Page 17