by James Allen
Or maybe there was another reason he was awake. Maybe he had a friend he snuck in at night after everyone else had gone to bed. That would explain why he was so unwilling to let me bunk with him.
And I knew I wasn't going back to sleep until I'd relieved my curiosity. Armed with the excuse that he'd forgotten to give me something to wear in the morning, I cracked the door open and peeked inside.
Chapter Five
"Trouble sleeping?” inquired a friendly brogue from behind me. Derry, looking like something out of A Christmas Carol in his nightshirt, cap, and worn slippers, peered at me in the light of a candle. “Anything I may do?”
"Just up to use the bathroom.”
“A bath?” His eyebrows lifted. “At this time of night?”
I let that one go with a grin. “You don’t take baths in the middle of the night? I guess it is kind of late…” I looked toward Ezra’s room as pointedly as possible. “Is he usually up at this hour?”
“More often than he should be. Though now and then he falls off with the light still burning.”
I followed as Derry thumped over to Ezra’s door and without knocking, opened it. “Is he afraid of being alone in the dark?” I whispered over his shoulder.
“Bless you, he’s not alone.”
Ezra lay sound asleep on his quilt, still in his clothes except for the suit coat draped over the bedpost. I scanned the rest of the room just to make sure. “There’s no one else here."
Derry went to the window to shut it and draw the curtains. As I spoke, he put a finger to his lips and moved to the bedside. Ezra had been feeling the cold even in his sleep, judging by the way he huddled with his arms around the pillow. Derry eased off his shoes, but didn't bother with the clothes. As he tugged enough of the quilt loose to cover Ezra with it, Ezra opened his eyes and squinted against the low lamplight. “Derry?”
“None other. Back to Nod with you.”
“Mmm. I’m sorry about the light. Don’t tell Kath.”
“And when have I ever? She’d tar us both.” Derry brushed an affectionate hand over his hair, murmuring a good night. A twinge of envy caught me by surprise. Ezra and Derry lived in a quieter age with fewer distractions, not to mention closer quarters. But I had friends living in the same apartment building, friends I hadn’t seen in weeks. They had busy lives, like I did. Maybe that was a lousy excuse, but it had always seemed an inescapable fact of life, at least when I was back there, living it.
Ezra had drifted off by the time Derry had covered him and blown out the lamp. He motioned me out and a moment later appeared with his candle in hand.
“Do you do that every night?” I asked as he closed the door.
“When he's needing it. Some sense of it seems to wake me on the proper nights.” Derry shrugged. “We all of us have trouble sleeping now and then.”
I didn’t ask when he had trouble. I had a pretty good idea. Derry offered me the candle to take back upstairs, but I declined. My night vision was good and a lone candle didn’t make that much of a difference. I found my way back, to discover Henry had taken subconscious advantage of my absence to roll into the middle of the bed.
Tired and chilly, I unceremoniously pushed him back to his side and crawled under the blankets. He was up and gone by the time I woke. I lay in bed a while, listening to the sounds of the house and wondering if I felt like sight-seeing after all. I really wanted a hot shower and a shave. I assumed that was all available, since mostly everyone in the place seemed bathed and clean-shaven. A hot bath would do in lieu of a shower, the relevant word being hot.
I heard footsteps in the hall and feeling safe in assuming it was neither Kathleen nor Hannah, I opened the door. Derry, more somberly dressed than he’d been the day before, grinned at me. “You sleep nearly as late of a Sunday as Ezra,” he said cheerfully.
At least I didn’t sleep in my clothes. “What time is it?”
Derry checked his watch. “Just after eight.”
Dear God. He thought that was late? “Let me ask you,” I said as he started down the stairs. “Is there somewhere I can clean up? You know, shower and shave? Or bathe?” I wasn’t all that fond of baths, but I felt like I’d been on a six day stake-out without even a gas station sink to wash up in.
He directed me down the hall and left me to figure out the bathroom on my own. It was old-fashioned, with feminine touches in the lace curtains and white lace-trimmed towels. I supposed the guys didn’t mind too much, since it was all so bright and clean. Cleaner by far than my own bathroom at home.
I searched the white cabinets and found some strong-smelling soap and bath salts, but no shampoo and no razor. Filling the tub, I sank into acceptably hot water with a deep appreciation that I hadn’t gone back any further in time than 1888. Sure, I’d bathed in some pretty iffy spots before, including an impromptu bath in an ice cold creek, but that didn’t mean I wanted to make a habit of it. I lingered in the fragrant enveloping warmth a good thirty minutes, then reluctantly got out and wrapped a towel around my waist. Catching a look at myself in the mirror over the wash stand, I winced. The soap hadn’t done my hair any good and I was in desperate need of a shave.
Somewhere in the array of drawers and cabinets, there had to be a razor or at least a comb. My diligent search was interrupted by a knock at the door and I sighed. “Yeah, come in.” With any luck, it’d be someone with a comb I could borrow.
I glanced around as the door opened. Ezra, in tweedy brown pants and a crisp white shirt, came in, saw me, and stopped short so abruptly he nearly tripped over his own feet. He hastily shut the door with his back against it, no doubt to protect the ladies from the danger of accidentally viewing my half-naked form. I got a firm grip on the towel as it started to slide. “I was just getting cleaned up. You mind?”
His lips twitched, eyes alight. “Not at all. What is it you’re looking for?”
“I didn’t exactly get the chance to pack for this trip, if you’ll recall. Comb, razor, shampoo—“
“Ah. Of course. Give me a moment.”
He slipped back out and I waited, finding my own amusement in the way he’d been so obviously checking me out. He came back, hands full, and set the items carefully on top of the cabinet. I looked over the old-fashioned gadgets dubiously. “No electric razor?”
“Electric?”
I heard his fascination and realized I should’ve been more careful. Not that it was likely he’d go out and invent one, but the thought that I could so easily alter history bothered me.
“I was just joking.” I picked up the straight razor, a gleaming piece of steel attached to a slender porcelain handle, and wondered if I could use it without disfiguring myself for life. I brushed the blade over my thumb. Damn, it was sharp. “This is what you use, huh?”
“It is, yes.” A puzzled crease appeared between his brows. “How exactly does an electric razor work?”
“Better than this, I’d bet,” I said under my breath and put the blade down. “I think I’ll just wait until I’m back home.”
He’d hooked a flat leather strap from a slim metal bar on the cabinet. Picking up the razor, he began to strop it up and down the leather. “It’s not difficult to master. You may want a little guidance if this is your first time.”
I eyed him suspiciously, but saw no sign of intended innuendo. Still, I imagined he was capable of it if he wanted to be. “You offering to give me a shave?”
“If you would prefer Derry’s assistance or Henry’s—“
“You’re here,” I said with a shrug. “Just as long as you’re not planning to do me in with that thing.”
“Despite all the incentive you’ve given me?” He countered my wary grin with a bright smile and reached around me to appropriate a wicker stool that had been serving as a plant stand. “Take a seat, Mr. Nash.”
He ran a little hot water into a brown mug, stirring with the brush until the mug overflowed with creamy lather. I sat down and he applied the fragrant mess to my face like an artist sweepi
ng his brush over the canvas. He took his time, rubbing the lather into my skin, and giving me too much opportunity to think over what was coming next. As he picked up the razor, my second thoughts became third thoughts. The rugged look wasn’t really all that bad…
The blade came closer and I caught Ezra’s wrist. “Have you done this before?”
“Nearly every day—“
“No, I mean on someone else.”
“Ah.” His eyes were sparkling. “No.”
“Oh good. Keep any bandages in here?”
He laughed. “Not the most trusting of souls, are you.” Wriggling out of my grasp, he tilted my head back gently with one hand. “Hold perfectly still, please.”
That was one thing he didn’t have to worry about. “Maybe if you just show me how—“
“That, I believe, is what I’m doing,” he said calmly and I felt the blade glide over my skin with an expert ease that was encouraging and worrisome at the same time. Blue eyes flickered briefly to mine. “Breathe, Mr. Nash.”
I’d hardly realized I wasn’t. He held the razor poised a few inches away while I blew out a breath. “Sorry. This is all taking some getting used to.”
“I understand.” He rinsed the blade. “I hope you did not have a difficult night with Henry. He can be--temperamental.”
"We tolerated each other well enough." I knew it wasn’t the best moment to risk pissing the guy off, but sometimes you just have to live dangerously. “What's he so mad at you about? It can't be just because you're better at the game than he is.”
“It isn’t a game,” he said quietly. “And I don’t know that I’m better at it. I think I’d prefer to be a complete failure.” He moved around me and bent close to shave under my jaw. “I do not mean to take clients from him. It’s just that…”
“Just what?”
He lowered the blade to rinse it again. “What would you do if someone asked for your help?”
“What would I do? I’d tell the client that Henry’s just as willing to help,” I said, unable to keep a sarcastic inflection out of my voice on the final word.
He let out a breath that was warm against my ear. “I didn’t say the client had asked.” He moved around behind me and cupped a hand under my chin, tilting my head back. The blade skimmed my cheek with no pressure and a lot less discomfort than I’d been expecting. “Have you ever considered growing a moustache?”
He was as good at changing subjects as he was at convincing people he could converse with the dead. “I had a moustache for a few months, about six years ago. Didn’t really like it.”
“The ladies didn’t approve?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” The feel of the sharp blade grazing my skin was mesmerizing. He hadn't so much as nicked me yet. He slowed down along my upper lip, shaving there with small careful strokes before proceeding to the other cheek.
Expecting him to get back up to speed, I was surprised to feel the blade continue in a slow caress over my skin, as if he’d fallen into a certain fascination with the process and wanted to draw it out a little longer. I wasn’t about to hurry him. Slow and careful was best, as far as I was concerned. Leaning forward to keep a close eye on his work forced him to press himself against my back. The fabric of his pants was pleasantly rough against my bare skin and along with the brush of the blade, lulled me into a comfortable state. I didn’t exactly mean to lean back against him, but I guess I did, because I could feel something that you wouldn’t expect to feel so easily through a thick layer of tweed. I leaned a little harder to make sure. Oh yeah. That was one thing he couldn’t fake. I gained some satisfaction in having my suspicions confirmed—and that particular satisfaction was going to have to keep me going, at least until I got back home. I probably could’ve seduced him right there on the blue and white tiles, but I wouldn’t have been too happy with myself for crossing that line.
He finished the shave and checked his work like any good barber, with the brush of fingers over my skin. “A moustache would suit you,” he ventured, with the distracted tone of someone lost in thought. Waking to developments, he cleared his throat. “Not that you aren’t just as dashing, clean-shaven,” he added, gingerly putting a little space between the two of us. “Deck you out in evening clothes and you'd be the sensation of the season.”
He kept up the chatter, hoping, no doubt, that I wouldn’t turn around until he was out the door. I decided to be merciful and pretend to occupy myself with toweling away the remaining streaks of lather. Ezra made good his escape, pausing long enough to offer an excuse for rushing out. “I’ll just bring your clothes in so you needn’t go hunting them down in your towel.”
I half-turned. “I could use a comb too, if you’ve got one.”
The door shut abruptly. I let the grin come and rubbed a hand over my face. Cleanest shave I’d ever had, not to mention the most entertaining. Less amusing was being stuffed back into a suit and realizing I was headed for another long bus ride. I came downstairs to find the whole place deserted. Church was less of a sometime thing for these people, apparently, or else Kathleen was particularly persuasive with her gentlemen boarders. I foraged for breakfast and hit the jackpot with leftover cinnamon rolls. Ezra came down and taking pity on me, made coffee. I asked him why he didn’t go to church with the rest and he replied that he had as direct a line to Heaven and Hell as he cared to.
I was beginning to wonder if this guy didn’t believe his own spiel. If he didn’t, he was good at pretending he did. It bothered me to find myself liking him. I knew better than to buy into the slippery charm of your average sociopath. But I was having a tough time keeping that label on Ezra. He seemed to have an empathy socios didn’t.
My instincts were off, maybe because I was still trying to find my bearings here. It was time to get a grip and pull myself together. I had to survive another bus ride in warm drizzling weather. And I’d thought the press of unwashed animals and seldom-washed people was bad before...
Then Ezra came through again. He hailed a cab.
“Spending your last dime on me?” I asked as the big black box with the little cabbie perched on top cantered toward the curb. “Better save some for lunch.”
“You needn’t worry about our funds.”
“Yeah? Psychic business pays well?” I dropped onto the seat and he squeezed in next to me, bringing two little doors together in front of us. He tapped his walking stick on the roof and the cab lurched into the road.
“I told you, I don’t earn a living that way.” He looked uncomfortable. “I receive an allowance from my--family.”
Ah. A nineteenth century conman and slacker. “Do they know about your ghosts?”
“They know.” And from his tone, he would have preferred they didn’t. He fell quiet and the view absorbed my attention for a while, the surreal passing of open carriages full of people in their Sunday best, while folks in grubbier garb shuffled along the sidewalks past closed shops.
“If everything’s closed today, where are we going, anyway?” I peered across the road to the dark, windowless building that dominated the street corner. “That looks familiar.”
Ezra looked out. “Newgate and the sessions house.”
“Old Bailey?” That had been one place I’d had an interest in seeing, but I'd never gotten around to it in my own time. I took Ezra’s walking stick and tapped on the ceiling of the cab.
As the cabbie pulled to a stop, Ezra looked at me dubiously. “What are you doing?”
“I just want to take a look around.” I was out of the cab before he could protest. Leonard Gladstell, ever the history buff, had gone on and on about London’s penal system, old and new. I knew that the stark granite walls rising fifty feet above me would be demolished in another decade. I also knew that the conditions inside were as wretched as I could imagine, and then some.
“Mr. Nash.” Ezra had let the cab go and followed me down the street. He finally caught up, agitated I presumed that he couldn’t keep me on a leash. “If you’d prefer
to walk to St. Paul’s—“
“In a minute.” I ran a hand over the gritty stones as I wandered in the direction of criminal court, wishing there were a trial underway. There, at least, was the prospect of entertainment, if a little on the bleak side. But it being Sunday, I had to figure the courts were as dead as the shops.
I walked a little further, looking for a window or courtyard to peer into. Ezra hurried after me. “There will be nothing to see today.”
Tension ran in an unmistakable thread under his earnest tone. I took a look at him. “Not even ghosts?”