by James Allen
The sarcasm was wasted. His attention had jerked to the wall in front of us and the color drained from his face so fast I thought he was going to collapse. With a strained murmur of, “Oh God,” he manacled my wrist with a tight grip and launched into a run down the sidewalk.
“Hey!" I tried to stop him and couldn’t. “Christ, Ez, slow down.”
Ezra wasn’t making a beeline for the nearest cab. He wove from side to side--like somebody making his way through a crowd. Only there wasn't one. I finally broke loose as he plunged off the sidewalk. The traffic wasn’t heavy, but what there was moved at a brisk pace. He didn’t pay it the slightest attention but kept going, right into the path of a fast-moving team of horses.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered and dove at him, sending us both to the ground. Hooves clattered past, voices exclaiming in dismay from somewhere beyond them, but the carriage didn’t stop. A constable showed up, to hustle us to our feet and to the far curb. Shaken, Ezra let me drag him to a bench under a row of trees, where he sat with his head in his hands.
“You look like you could use a drink. Where’s the nearest pub?”
“On Sunday?"
I assumed that meant we weren’t going to find any of the hard stuff. “So maybe a cup of tea, then.”
He turned his head with a baleful look for me. “Tea? What are you trying to do to me, Mr. Nash? One minute tormenting; the next solicitous. Is this meant to be some sort of vengeance for overturning your life? I did apologize and I am sorry. I intend to do everything in my power to get you back home safely. If you will only please just…” He lowered his head back into his hands and I heard him mutter, “stop.”
As much as I wanted to make another crack about the consequences of summoning demons, I didn’t. Another bit of Leonard’s lecture had come to mind. Murderers hanged at Newgate were buried in the building, under the flagstones in unmarked, lime-enclosed coffins. Tried, sentenced, executed, and buried all in the same cold, brutal environs. If any place was ripe for haunting…
Jeez. Now I was buying into it. One thing was certain. Ezra believed he’d seen something. And I didn’t think his reactions were faked. Schizophrenia came to mind. The guy was messed up. Likeable in his own way, but seriously messed up. And unfortunately for him, he lived in a time when he’d be lucky if he didn’t end up shut away in a dark hole somewhere with lunatic stamped on his forehead. Maybe people were impressed with his claims and his lucky guesses, but sooner or later they might start seeing him for what he was: a man with a mental illness.
It occurred to me he could come into the future to get the psych care he needed, but I wasn’t too eager to suggest it. The last thing I wanted was a loony, out-of-place Victorian hanging around my neck while I tried to get my life back in order. He belonged in this time, anyway. His life was here, his friends were here, and they seemed to be looking after him—all but Henry. The antipathy I’d had for both Ezra and Henry was now all Henry’s. He might not realize it, but he was taking advantage of Ezra as thoroughly as he was taking advantage of grieving widows. That, at least, was something I might be able to put to an end.
But for now, I felt I owed Ezra my own apology. “Ez…” I leaned forward so that we were shoulder to shoulder but he kept his head down. “Ezra, I’m sorry. You doing any better?”
He looked at me, eyes a shadowy blue in a face that was still too pale. “You know, a cup of tea sounds like a capital idea.” The faintest smile lifted the corners of his mouth, taking some of the shadows with it. Not until we were back on the road did he discover he’d lost both his hat and walking stick. He did not suggest going back for them and I figured someone else had probably appropriated them by now, anyway. “Forget about the hat. We’ll go hatless. Start a new trend.” I’d forgone the hat, myself, and the walking stick Ezra had offered me. I had all the protection I needed, strapped under my arm.
“Start a trend or find ourselves gracing the pages of Punch.”
Not something to be wished for, I guessed from his tone. He fell quiet and stayed quiet until the cab rolled to the curb of a small coffee shop. It reminded me a little of the restaurant we'd gone to the night before, with less smoke and more plants. We snagged a table by the window and Ezra ordered coffee and sandwiches.
“What's up for tonight?”
Ezra looked at me warily. “Henry is hosting a séance."
"Raking in one widow at a time too slow for you guys?"
His frown was more one of frustration than any annoyance directed at me. "Have you ever attended a séance, Mr. Nash?"
"Nope." I leaned my chair back against the wall and offered up an ominous grin. "I guess this will be my first."
He deemed it time to change the subject. “What is it you do of a Sunday evening at home?”
“Depends,” I said with a shrug. “Go to a ballgame. The beach. Sailing. Hit the clubs."
“What did you do last Sunday?”
Disorienting to even think about, it seemed so far away from where I was now. I hadn’t been home last Sunday, though. Oregon. The counterfeiting case. It had ended in an arrest and I’d spent most of the day on the paperwork. “I was wrapping up an assignment. I don’t always have the luxury of a weekend off.”
“You were working?” A faint smile formed on his lips. “Well, then, when last did you occupy yourself with something that wasn’t work?”
The waiter returned with a pot of coffee and a neat row of sandwiches on a plate. He filled our cups and put the sandwiches between us. I wrapped my hands around the hot porcelain and inhaled. It smelled like heaven. Like home. I could close my eyes and imagine sipping coffee, newspapers spread far and wide, morning sun warm on my back while I wasted half a Sunday in bed. It was something I’d done on my own for the past couple of years. Reese never slept in and he didn’t like to drink coffee in bed. Those were two requirements I had to think about including next time I got involved with someone.
Ezra stirred cream into his coffee along with a disturbing amount of sugar. “An FBI agent, I take it, is something like a policeman?"
"Something like."
"Rather exciting and dangerous, then?”
“It’s not as glamorous as they make it out to be, but it has its moments.” The sandwiches were ham and looked a little thin but I gave one a try. The meat was hot and salty and the sauce was something I didn’t recognize, but like most of the food had been so far, it was edible. Ezra, coffee forgotten, gave me the intrigued look I’d seen a thousand times. I sighed. “It’s mostly paperwork, really. A lot of waiting and watching. Some technical stuff. I don’t spend nearly as much time hanging upside down off spy planes as you might think.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
It wasn't easy having a conversation with someone who didn't share your cultural references. I took a glum bite of sandwich, homesick for the civilization I’d left behind. Ezra folded his arms on the table and leaned toward me, fascination not dampened one iota. “You haven’t--shot anyone.”
Killed anyone, he meant. It was a question I’d been asked before and I never liked answering it. Not every raid was going to go as smoothly as clockwork. Suspects sometimes shot at you and you had to defend yourself. “You know, there’s only so much specific information I can give you about the future. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have given you as much as I have already.”
He nodded, but I had a funny feeling he saw right through that evasion. “Are there any other sights you’d care to visit, then? We do have some with a less distressing history behind them.”
He’d had enough of ghosts for the day. Not a good attitude for someone intending to conduct a séance later on. “Yeah? You’ll take me wherever I want?”
“I suppose I might.”
The guarded answer made me grin. “The Tower of London?” I suggested, helping myself to another sandwich.
Ezra nearly choked on his coffee. “You have an incorrigible sense of humor. And I suspect I’m not the only one who’s told you so.”
Two men came into the café and they headed to our table. The taller of the two stood as broad-shouldered as a football player and moved with the same natural grace. His buddy was slimmer and hustled at his side with the sort of nervous energy that comes from too much coffee--or something more potent. He greeted Ezra with compassion usually reserved for the recently bereaved. "I hear you're engaged, dear boy." He cast an eye over me with open appreciation. "The best of both worlds, eh?"
The taller man offered me a gracious smile. “You must forgive Sidney. He spends far too much time in the more disreputable part of town.”
Sidney’s wide mouth curled with wicked humor. “One never knows when one may find roses amid the trash.” The brown eyes strayed back to me. “Or the coffee shops. Aren’t you going to make the introductions, Ezra dear?”
There was apology in the look Ezra gave me, but for what, I wasn't sure. “Morgan, may I introduce Mr. James Francis Montague and Mr. Sidney Dasset. James, Sidney, Mr. Morgan Nash of New York.”
“New York!” Sidney exclaimed, taking a seat without being invited. “I detected something of the adventurer about you right away. He has the look of a hero in one of those novels they sell at the train, doesn’t he, Jem? My dear Mr. Nash, it is a pleasure.”
Jeez, where did they find this guy? I noted Ezra seemed torn between amusement and embarrassment. He nodded for Jem Montague to take the other empty chair and Jem did, ignoring Sidney completely. “How long have you been in London, Mr. Nash?”
It was starting to seem like forever. “Just a couple of days. And call me Morgan,” I added, hoping the invitation would not send Sidney into new paroxysms. Some guys were way too obvious.
“Morgan.” Jem smiled and I returned it, with interest. I hadn’t realized there were so many good-looking men in the nineteenth century. You might not guess it from old photographs. Jem Montague was a big guy but he had the gentlemanly air these guys all cultivated, along with a killer smile.
“You ask the wrong question, dear Jem,” Sidney interrupted. “How long are you staying in London, Morgan?” He said my name as if he could taste it on his lips.
“Just through tomorrow,” Ezra answered for me. “Have a sandwich, Sidney.”
“I will, thank you.” Sidney further helped himself to a cup of coffee. “We were just on our way to the park and lo, we saw you in the window and we just had to come in and offer our condolences.”
Ezra raised an eyebrow and Jem sighed. “He means our congratulations, Ezra. I take it the marriage will return you to your father’s good graces.”
“The engagement has accomplished that,” Ezra acknowledged and I wondered if the money were that important to him.
A mouthful of sandwich didn’t slow Sidney down. “A spring ceremony, of course.”
“Yes.” Ezra finished his coffee. From the look on his face, I think he might’ve been better off with a shot of whiskey. “You will attend, I hope.”
“I adore weddings,” Sidney said. “Everyone is so much more attractive. And I must meet Charlotte. Is she ravishing?”
The question caught Ezra off-guard. “She’s--pretty,” he said, clearly considering it for the first time. Then his gaze went beseechingly to Jem, who burst into a hearty laugh.
“Don’t worry, my dear fellow," he said. "I will keep Sidney on a short tether. I’ve chloroform in case he gets out of hand.”
Sidney leaned sideways and asked in a husky voice, “Will you carry me out then, cradled in your arms?”
“And encourage your usual vile behavior? I think not.”
“Beast.” Sidney glared at him and swung around toward me. “Shall I woo you away from Ezra, dear Morgan? I should like to see America in all its rough, boisterous edges. It sounds the loveliest place.”
“Sidney, for God’s sake.” Jem sat back in his seat, stretching long legs in front of him. “America would lock you away just as quick, you know.”
“Then America is just as heartless. What have we done to warrant it, I ask you?"
The question appeared to be directed to me. I wasn't quite ready to be Sid's new best friend. "More sinned against than sinning, huh?"
His eyes fairly glittered at that. "I certainly hope not, dear boy."
Jem's lips twitched and Ezra slid a little further down in the chair as Sid prattled on. "Do give Ezra the new Reflector, Jem. Ezra, have you had a chance to read his book?”
“You’re a writer?” He must have been a minor one. I’d never heard of him.
“Poet,” Sidney informed me with a pride I found kind of touching. “Utter genius. He shall go down through the ages with the likes of Shelley and Keats.”
“Yeah?” I wasn’t a big fan of poetry but I didn’t remember the name Montague rubbing shoulders with Shelley or Keats.
“Speaking of poets,” Sidney went on, “your darling landlord, Ezra. How is he?”
It was my turn to nearly choke on the coffee. “Derry writes poetry?”
“Positively wretched with emotions,” Sidney commented, taking the last sandwich.
“I rather like Derry’s poetry,” Ezra said.
“It’s highly sentimental,” Jem confirmed with a smile touching on condescension. “Mostly wistful yearnings for the Ireland he left behind. Although I did like the one published in that little rag. What was it? ‘To Ailis’. Very heartfelt.”
“Heartfelt,” Ezra repeated quietly, "by the most decent heart in Christendom.”
Ready to defend Derry, I was glad to hear Ezra do it. Sidney fidgeted in his seat, nibbling on the sandwich. Jem gazed across at us without pretense. “Heartfelt, indeed. You must come to dinner Tuesday, dear fellow. Now that you have been welcomed back into society’s good graces.”
"Certainly before you come to regret it." Sidney swallowed the rest of the sandwich and washed it down with several gulps of coffee. “We’d best run, Jem dear. The seats shall be taken and we will have to sit in the damp grass.”
“Bring Morgan along with you, if you like,” Jem said as if Sidney hadn’t spoken. He looked me over more openly, with a look I knew well. He was handsome, yeah, but I wasn’t too sure that I liked him. Piercing blue eyes and a strong jaw compensated for only so much. I gave him my noncommittal smile and shrug.
“Thanks for the invite. I’ll probably be long gone by then. But, hey, if you’re ever in New York, feel free to look me up.”
Sidney beamed. “What charming slang. I do wish you’d stay longer, Morgan. I’d no idea Americans could be this interesting.”
Jem Montague stood up, towering over the table, and extended a hand to me. “A genuine pleasure, sir.” He put on his hat and nodded farewell to Ezra. ”Do send me an invitation, dear boy.”
“Jem.” Ezra seemed oddly subdued. “I’ll see you at the club.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Sidney began, and broke off as Jem latched firmly onto his arm and pushed him out ahead through the doorway.
“We should be on our way as well.” Apprehension strained Ezra’s voice. I looked at him to see him staring down into his empty cup. He reluctantly met my eyes and I saw the apology there. “The assumptions they made, Mr. Nash…” He shook his head. “I’m grateful to you for not—“
“Punching them in the nose?” He was squirming, but I couldn’t resist.
He grimaced. “I am sorry.”
“Hey, come on. I was joking. Anyway, their assumptions are not your fault. Just forget about it.”
It wasn’t the response he expected, judging by the bewildered expression on his face. “You aren’t insulted?”
“Should I be?” I gave him a grin. “Hell, in a way, I’m flattered.”
I sure didn’t seem to be doing anything to relieve his confusion. “Flattered,” he murmured, as if the word made no sense in the context of our conversation. “But--you knew already,
then?"
“Ezra, you flirted with me almost the instant I got here.”
His cheeks colored. “If I’ve made you uncomfortable—“
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“It doesn’t?”
I was confusing the hell out of him and it was probably better to keep it that way. I’d complicated enough friendships in my own time. I didn’t need this guy following after me into the future to declare some Victorian ‘til death do us part kind of thing.
Time to perfect my own subject-changing skills. “So what do you say? Stonehenge?" I suggested and at his horrified look swallowed a grin. Sending me back home was going to be a relief for us both.