Katie took another gulp of air and rushed on before she lost her nerve. “My mom and dad died in a car crash. They were picking up my cousin Collin at the airport. He’s a direct descendant of your Collin, here in the nineteenth century. Anyway, on their way to the airport in Boston, my parents were in a collision. That’s why I put my finger into the Raven’s Claw fissure in the London Stone. I just wanted to say good-bye. And I wanted my sister to come home. By mistake, I must have whispered something about Jack the Ripper, because the next thing I knew I was hurtling through time and landed here in your century!”
Toby remained silent.
A spasm of fear shot through Katie. Toby would walk away from her because he thought she was crazy. Deranged. He’d have the Duke commit her to an asylum for the insane.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” she wailed, and her voice to her own ears sounded pathetic, like a child begging forgiveness. But there was nothing to forgive. She’d done nothing wrong. Other than conceal her real identity, lie about being psychic, and not tell the truth about where she came from. Minor quibbles in the grand scheme of things.
“I’ve a question for you, lass.”
“Shoot.”
“Shoot what?” He stared at her, perplexed.
“No. I mean, okay, hit me.”
“Hit you?” Both eyebrows shot up this time.
“I mean, ask your question! Just remember, Toby, as weird as this is to you, it’s a gazillion times weirder for me. I’m living it! And unless you are Jack the Ripper, I could use a little help here. Go ahead. Ask me anything.”
“What’s an airport?” he asked levelly, meeting her eyes without a flicker of anger or annoyance or disbelief.
“That’s it? I thought you’d be totally pissed off and ready to commit me to an insane asylum. You look as if you actually believe me!”
“I do.”
“But why? I mean, why would you?”
Toby explained that the last thing Mrs. Tray had whispered to him was that if Katie told him how her parents died, he would know she was telling the truth. And that this truth would be far more difficult to believe than anything he could dream up on his own.
“So,” continued Toby, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “The only idea I could dream up on my own was that you were either a spy, a member of a secret society, a supernatural being such as a ghost, a witch, or a vampire . . . or you were just plain crazy. But a time-traveler? I didn’t think of that. So, let me get this straight, your parents were riding in their carriage, which must have overturned—”
“Not a carriage. A car.”
“I know what a car is, Katie. It’s the cab within a carriage.”
“No, it’s an automobile. A . . . um . . . I think you call it—or will call it—a horseless carriage. And an airport is where airplanes land.”
“What’s an airplane?”
Katie began to laugh, softly at first, then all out. She saw the intelligence in Toby’s face, and the humor, too. Gone was the bleak, disbelieving face he had shown her back in the underground railway. She wanted to hug him. No . . . she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him. A cousinly kiss, of course.
She relaxed and, still grinning, said, “An airplane is sort of like a train, only it . . . er . . . flies. Through the sky. Through the clouds. Up in the air.” Katie held her breath, but when she let it out slowly, Toby just nodded.
“I suppose, lass, if we can travel at lightning speed underneath the ground, it’s not much of a leap of faith to believe that we shall someday hurtle overhead in a flying train. Though you won’t catch me riding upon one. Not if I have any say in it.”
Katie reached over and gave him a hug.
Toby looked startled, then pleased. “Now, lass,” he said. “Just because I believe your cock-and-bull story doesn’t mean I’m susceptible to your charms. Nor will I allow you to take liberties with my affections. A proper young lady does not hug a gentleman in public.” Toby tsk-tsked and tugged out his pocket watch. “Best be on our way.”
They walked across the street, past the Lyceum Theatre, with its giant billboard advertising Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, and on through the northern tip of Green Park. As they walked, Katie couldn’t take in enough fresh air. She had hated being underground amid the sulfurous fumes, smoke, and roar of the engine.
All around them in the park, autumn leaves rustled. Glossy green grass was turning to golden brown beneath the elm trees. White birches and giant beeches made dancing, leafy patterns against the clear blue sky. Katie felt happier than she had in days.
They strolled down a path flanked by black-eyed Susans swaying in the breeze, their black middles and yellow petals drooping heavily over long, orange stalks. Neat rows of flower beds showed roses still in bloom; spirals of white and purple phlox shimmered in the afternoon light.
Katie smiled as her boots scraped against the paving stones. What was the analogy Mrs. Tray had used to describe Toby’s mother? The sound a petal makes when it falls to the ground. Katie glanced at Toby. His sound, if there were such a thing, would be a million oak leaves rustling in the autumn wind, straining to be free.
“What are you thinking about, lass?” Toby asked, his strong nose and handsome face catching the fading rays of the sun.
Katie tried to contain her amusement. “You.”
“Well, then,” Toby said, his smile steady, his eyes full of laughter. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts—as wonderful as they surely must be.”
Katie laughed happily, and then suddenly stopped as she remembered something else. Someone else. Collin. How he would die on the moors in a hunting accident. She thought about her grandmother’s family Bible and the historical details recorded there. A year from now, on September 12, 1889, Collin would lose his footing and drown in a peat bog on the moors. And this was after he married Prudence Farthington and produced an heir. I’ve got to warn Toby. He can save Collin.
Katie shook her head. No, I can’t tell Toby. At least not right now. It was enough that Toby believed she could travel through time. And that he believed her about Jack the Ripper. There would be plenty of time later when he trusted her more. Still . . . maybe she could hint at it.
“Toby . . . ” Katie took a deep breath. “There’s one more thing. Promise me you will never, ever venture out on the moors with Collin. Especially a year from now. Exactly a year from now. Never, ever. Promise?” She didn’t mention her grandmother’s family Bible, or that Collin would marry Prudence Farthington. Nor did she tell him that Tobias Becket, trusted family friend, would be with Collin Chesterfield Twyford, the third, when he died on September the twelth, in 1889. I can’t dump one more thing on Toby’s plate. He’s got enough to swallow right now. And if history can’t be changed . . . if we can’t stop Jack the Ripper and save Lady Beatrix, there’s no hope for Collin.
Katie stared up at Toby. His strong jaw, glossy black hair, and rugged features made her heart pound. But it was his kind, fathomless dark eyes that just about did her in. If I tell Toby about Collin’s death on the moors, and Toby isn’t able to prevent it, how awful is that? Is it better to know the future or not know? Katie decided that if she could actually change history, even a little bit, by stopping Jack the Ripper, or saving any of those girls, then she’d tell Toby about Collin’s accidental drowning in a peat bog—or at least what was recorded in the family chronicle of births and deaths.
With the exit to the park looming in front of them, Toby met Katie’s gaze and his tone grew serious. “I think we’d best keep this time-travel business to ourselves. Collin can’t be relied upon to keep a secret. And if you go spouting off about the London Stone being a portal into the past, others might think you’re a wee bit cracked, up here—” He tapped his forehead. “Have we got a deal, then lass?”
Katie nodded. “It’s a jellied eel as long as you agree not to tell Major Gideon Brown. We can’t risk it. He’s a police officer, which gives him the perfect alibi to be prowling the streets at night. The per
fect disguise for Jack the—” Katie stopped when she saw Toby’s expression.
Annoyance tugged at the corners of his mouth. “For now,” he conceded. “But you’re wrong about Major Brown. He’s a Cockney who has risen to the top ranks in Scotland Yard. He’s totally trustworthy.” Toby’s eyes fastened on hers. “The very idea that he might be a suspect—”
“Loyalty is a good thing, Toby. But no one, and I mean no one, can be above suspicion.”
“Or below it.”
At the edge of the park, half a dozen gardeners toiled, pushing wheelbarrows full of weeds and carrying watering cans. There were no power mowers in this century, Katie reminded herself. Every bit of work needed to be done by hand.
A bee drifted lazily past. It was fat and striped and brought to mind honey, which was replaced by tea and scones dripping with butter and strawberry jam.
“I’m starving,” Katie said, acutely aware of her growling stomach and wanting to think about anything but Jack the Ripper and the young women who would soon be slaughtered. And Collin’s impending fate—if the family history was written correctly.
“Katherine.” Toby’s voice held a warning note. “My edict still holds.”
Big Ben, loud in the quiet park, struck four bongs.
“And what edict is that?” asked Katie, suddenly weary of edicts and deals and promises.
Toby smiled, showing strong, if slightly crooked, white teeth.
“I’m still responsible for your safety, lass. Whatever investigating we do, wherever this leads us, I’m still in charge. You’ll do exactly as I say. I’ve only your safety in mind.”
“Of course!” cried Katie with feigned innocence. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. “I’ll do whatever you think best, Toby.”
If Katie had learned anything in this century, it was this. Girls had to be cunning to outmaneuver the chauvinistic attitudes of Victorian male egos. It was a hazard of being in an old-fashioned century where boys actually believed they were superior.
“So what’s our next move, Sherlock?” Katie bit back a smile.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Urchins Will Perch ’neath the Bells of Christ Church
Later that night, after a torturously long dinner, Toby found himself consulting his pocket watch as he and Collin climbed onto a horse-drawn double-decker heading for the East End.
They were on their way to warn Miss Annie Chapman of her impending death at the hands of Jack the Ripper on September the tenth, two days hence—at least according to Katie—by the same lunatic who had disemboweled Mary Ann Nichols.
After dinner and the dessert course of strawberry and rhubarb custard, with lemon pudding, the Duke had insisted on singing duets in the library. Katie had pleaded a headache in order to slip away with Collin and Toby, but the Duke, upon learning that Katie could play the piano, was adamant she remain and help entertain his guests.
Katie had pulled Toby aside, pleading with him to rescue her. “My sister’s a rock star!” she whispered frantically. “I can’t play your kind of music. I don’t know any songs from this era. I can’t very well play heavy metal for the Duke! My own grandmother can’t stand listening to Courtney’s music. And don’t get me started on the Metro Chicks — your great-grandson loves them. The only old songs I know are Beatles songs. Or maybe ‘Chopsticks’! What am I going to do?”
“Give the Duke a Viennese waltz or a Chopin mazurka. If all else fails, play something from Gilbert and Sullivan.”
“Gilbert and Sullivan . . . ” Katie’s eye’s lit up. “I know a song from The Pirates of Penzance. We sang it at camp. But I’ve never played it on the piano—”
“Camp?”
“Summer camp. Where you learn archery, riflery, horseback riding, sailing, tennis—”
“Riflery! Surely not.”
“Riflery and—”
“The future of England—this England—teaches girls marksmanship? The British realm becomes militaristic? War mongering?” Toby could only blink at her. What sort of world, future or otherwise, allowed girls to shoot rifles? And he had no idea what a rock star was. Perhaps in the future the London Stone was called the London Rock. But what would a rock have to do with stars and music?
When he finally excused himself and said good night to Sir Godfrey, Lady Beatrix and the others, with Collin trotting happily in his wake, Toby caught the flash of frustration in Katie’s eyes. She did not want to be left behind. But in truth, it was a relief to Toby. There were so many conflicting thoughts running through his head when he was with the girl that he was glad for the respite.
A spark of perverse satisfaction surged through him as he settled into a seat next to Collin on the omnibus. He would never allow Katie to know how deeply she affected him. Not because she was a time-traveler—though he still couldn’t fathom that not inconsequential fact—no, it was because, loath as Toby was to admit it, he was falling in love with her. His muscles tensed just thinking about it.
The lass was fearless, and her bluntness, refreshing. Most girls were simpering and superficial and not at all subtle in their desire to catch a titled husband, but Katie was none of these. There was amusement in her voice, and a sparkle in her eyes, but not with the end result of finding a husband—just a murderer, a vicious killer named Jack the Ripper, who might or might not even exist.
Toby sighed. That he should lose his heart to such a one as this ham shank was far more baffling to him than her ability to leapfrog across the centuries. But it was not just Toby who felt drawn to her.
At dinner tonight, Reverend Pinker had seemed overly interested in Katie. Proper etiquette dictated that young ladies did not laugh uproariously at the dinner table, nor offer up opinions on politics, medicine, or science. And yet Katie had done all of these things with an air of appearing interested.
Toby smiled thinking about how Katie had handled herself. During course after course, Major Brown’s eyes, like Reverend Pinker’s, had been riveted on her. Yet Katie seemed not the least intimidated. Not by Pinker’s overzealous attention, nor Major Brown’s butterfly-under-a microscope scrutiny, nor even by the Duke’s ribald jokes. And much to Lady Beatrix’s chagrin, Katie had even been so bold as to dismiss Major Brown’s assertion that the feminine brain was not suited to the rigors of mathematics.
Collin was poking Toby in the ribs now, drawing his attention back to the present. Toby consulted his watch again. A quarter past nine. From their vantage point on top of this open-air vehicle, London looked oddly ethereal, wrapped in a smoky white mist that distorted gas lamps and gave the streets from Mayfair down to the brightness of Piccadilly a pale, ghostly appearance.
Collin nudged Toby, harder this time. “I say, old sod. Did you notice what a jackass Pinker made of himself with Katherine at dinner? Ogling her as if she were Venus incarnate! Can’t fathom it. Stinker Pinker’s always worn his heart on his sleeve for Beatrix. He’s a dark horse, that one.”
Collin chuckled loudly and continued. “Remember the time old Pinker got me so mad I unhooked the wall mirror from my bureau, climbed out onto my roof, and shone it straight into his eyes as he drove up to the house?” An expression of glee lit up Collin’s face. “Old Stink-Pink was driving that glossy two-wheel trap to impress Beatrix. Came prancing up the drive, happy as you please. Ha! The reflection from the mirror darted straight into his eyes! Jolly good fun that, what?”
“I remember,” Toby said, thinking back on the childish prank, “that the sun bounced off your four-foot mirror directly into the horse’s off-side eye, and the poor beast took fright and bolted, sending Reverend Pinker flying arse-over-teakettle into the rosebushes.”
Collin beamed. “That crazed horse took off at a speed almost equal to the one at which you chased me halfway round the stable yard!”
“You were lucky I didn’t give you the worst walloping of your life, pulling such a reckless stunt. Where’s the sport in spooking a defenseless animal?”
“Not to me
ntion old Pinker. But it was a jolly good prank all the same. And you’ve got to admit, Toby, Stinker Pinker had it coming.”
Toby grimaced. “You behaved like a jackanapes. No. Worse. A villainous little brute. Like you always do when someone pays court to your sister.”
Collin stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, looking infinitely pleased with himself. “Look here, Toby. Anyone with half an ounce of humor would have seen it for the rollicking good joke it was.”
“A rollicking good rum and coke that could have crippled a good horse, or—”
“A pompous old sod.”
“A pompous old sod you happen to like.”
“Stink-Pink’s a good sort, I’ll grant you. But not good enough for my sister, even if he inherits the earldom from that wretch of a brother, which seems highly unlikely. Quite the nerve, trying to woo Beatrix. But I showed him! And how about that time I put egg froth in the silk top hat of one of her suitors—fellow by the name of Finknottle — and it foamed all down the sides of his face like a frothy white beard. And remember when—”
Toby sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for Collin’s tales of tomfoolery. In truth, he wasn’t in the mood for Collin. He wished that the Duke had demanded Collin’s presence after dinner as well as Katie’s.
Toby felt a tinge of disloyalty as he glanced sideways at Collin. With his rust-red hair blowing in the wind; his glacier-blue eyes under their ragged red tufts of eyebrows, and his broad smile showing too many teeth when he laughed, Collin wasn’t such a bad egg. He just has a blind spot when it comes to his sister. Collin disliked any man who tried to win Beatrix’s affections. Toby shook his head. He and Collin had shared the same life, the same roof, the same school for five years. You can’t very well do that, Toby reasoned, without some sort of tolerant liking for the other person. Being a dogsbody and general companion to Collin wasn’t even difficult. Collin had a temper and got into his fair share of scrapes, but what future lord of the realm didn’t? The rules of middling society didn’t apply to the nobility. And the Duke, realizing that Collin hadn’t the stomach for fisticuffs, had hired instructors to teach Toby the manly art of soft-glove boxing. Which was a right jolly rum and coke. By the time a gent had readied himself into a fighting stance, any Cockney worth his salt—Toby not being the exception—had already knocked the blighter out cold.
Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller Page 27