Downtime

by James Allen

  One of the young officers came forward and whispered in the Inspector’s ear. Thick black brows lifted as Saffery turned back to study us. “The museum chappie?”

  Ezra nodded. “Even five minutes would be adequate.”

  I fully expected another flat no. But for all his mocking tone, Saffery apparently did feel he owed Ezra something. He instructed the young constable to take Ezra back to the cells and let him have a few minutes with Whitby, warning us as we left the office that we shouldn’t be surprised if Whitby didn’t feel much like conversing. As we followed the constable, I gave Ezra a nudge.

  “He may not know what book you’re talking about, so just try to get the names of the collectors he sells to." I dug my notebook and pencil out of my pocket. “Here. Write down everything he says, even if it doesn’t seem important. All right?”

  “You are rather like a policeman, aren’t you?” His lips twitched but he said nothing else as the constable waved me to a bench and took Ezra away, down another hall.

  Damn, I hated waiting. I wanted to be the one in there, firmly coercing Whitby to spill his guts. Five minutes stretched into ten and despite my restlessness, my hopes rose that Ezra was digging up the information we needed. When he finally reappeared and stopped in the entrance to the charge room to thank the constable, his face gave nothing away. I couldn’t sit still any longer. On my feet, I moved toward him and, before he could say anything, I maneuvered him out the door and down to the street. “What did he say?”

  Ezra looked up and down the street for a cab. I prodded him impatiently. “Ez?” The soft sigh that escaped him did not inspire confidence. He turned to me with so much damned sympathy in his face, I felt suddenly sick. “It’s gone. Lost. What? Tell me already.”

  “He was not particularly helpful. He rambled on about all manner of things and I think he was trying to avoid facing that he’s gotten himself into so much trouble—“

  “Ezra.” Talk about rambling on. I got a firm grip on his wrist, as much to steady myself as to shut him up. “Save the psychoanalysis for later, okay? Do you know where the book is?”

  “Yes. Here in town, I believe. I had the impression he was frightened about that. Frightened it would be discovered.”

  “Somewhere in London? Jesus. That’s not exactly pinpointing it.”

  “You should be thankful it’s here and not on its way to China.”

  I was trapped. Trapped in 1888 for the rest of my goddamned life. And it was my own fault. I should’ve gotten my hands on that book a whole lot earlier than this. I started down the sidewalk at a fast clip, wishing I could go for a run and get some thinking done.

  Ezra stuck with me. “Now, Morgan, Whitby hasn't dished your chances yet. I said we would find a copy of the book and we shall.”

  “You don’t by any chance know where Whitby lives?”

  “I’ve been to tea. Why do you want to know?”

  “We’re going to search his place.”

  His eyes widened. “We are?”

  “Well, I figure the police have pretty much stomped all over any clues in the museum offices and if Whitby’s got anything else stashed or is hiding a list of contacts somewhere, it’s going to be at home. We’ve got to beat the police there, though. You ready?”

  Ezra was still staring at me. “We’re going to search his house?”

  “You know, Ez, for a psychic, you’re kind of slow on the uptake sometimes. Let’s go.”

  Whitby lived in a cozy three-story row house on a tree-lined street with a wife, two children, a mother, a dog, and two cats. The son of a bitch. As the maid let us in, I looked around curiously. Hadn’t anyone wondered how a museum clerk could afford to live so comfortably? Paintings, sculpture, books--and probably not a single thing paid for. Well, Whitby would be paying for it now.

  “You’ve been here how many times?”

  Ezra, prowling the far side of the room near the piano, turned to me. “Just once.”

  “And it never struck you that the guy is doing a whole lot better than the rest of you lackeys combined?”

  He frowned. “He gave us to believe he had married into money. We had no reason to doubt his word.”

  The maid returned to inform us that Mrs. Whitby was receiving no visitors. I took the opportunity to casually ask a couple of questions and she wasn’t shy about answering them. With red-rimmed eyes, she forlornly confirmed that Mr. Whitby often came home with large packages, which were stored under the stairs. I told her that Mr. Glacenbie, under the auspices of the British Museum, had come to collect those packages and the poor kid went white.

  “Oh sir. I shall fetch the missus, then.”

  “No need,” Ezra said with a reassuring smile. “Let us not add to Mrs. Whitby’s distress, my dear. Just take me to the cupboard where Mr. Whitby has been storing our property and we shall discreetly remove it before the police discover it.”

  She hesitated, looking toward the stairs, then, releasing the handful of apron she’d twisted in both hands, scuttled down the hall and let us into a cramped, unlit storage space. Ezra asked for a lamp and the maid provided, illuminating a little storehouse of small statues, boxes, and stacks of books. My heart skipped a beat. The book was here, somewhere. I was practically home.

  We searched the stacks. Twice. There wasn’t even a book of similar subject matter, let alone anything chock full of incantations. Just dusty history tomes that were probably still in storage because he hadn’t been able to find a buyer yet.

  “Morgan.”

  I realized Ezra had said my name more than once. Dejected and damn near asphyxiated from the dust, I got up off the floor. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for another day.”

  “It will be all right.” He steered me out and I heard him telling the maid that there was too much for the two of us to carry away and he would send a cart around to gather everything. The maid showed us to the door and Ezra noted that Mrs. Whitby had quite a number of visitors earlier.

  “How do you know?”

  He nodded toward an entry table bearing a crystal tray stacked with what looked like business cards. I scooped them up and stashed them in my pocket as the maid opened the door. Ezra looked at me in surprise but didn’t say anything until we were on the stoop, the door closed behind us. “What are you doing? Mrs. Whitby will not know who called.”

  “I’m just borrowing them for a minute.” I fished out my notepad and began writing down names. Catching sight of his expression, I grinned. “Sully taught you that one.”

  “I imagine it’s a natural development of time spent with you.”

  “Relax.” I bent down and pushed the cards under the door. “The maid will think the cat knocked them off the table. No harm done.” I eased out from under my coat another item I’d borrowed from the Whitby household, a small silver picture frame with a family photo behind the glass.

  Ezra looked at me in disbelief. “Do tell me this is still illegal in the future.”

  “What?”

  “Robbing people of their personal belongings. You will return it?”

  “When I’m done with it, sure.” But first I had some questions to ask and people who didn’t remember names would remember faces. Adam Whitby’s face in particular. “You wouldn't know which bookstores Whitby frequented?”

  “The same ones we all frequent.”

  “Okay. We'll just have to work our way through them. You coming with?”

  “With you? Yes. I can hardly let you go roaming around London on your own again.”

  “I can manage. You ditch work and you’ll lose your job.”

  “No matter. It’s more an amusement than necessity.” He seemed sobered by the thought.

  “You mean since you got engaged like a good little boy and your dad took you back under his wing?”

  He answered matter of factly. “Yes, that is what I meant.”

  Part of me regretted the harsh comment, but it was difficult to hold back. He had no business getting engaged, no matter how much do
ugh he might lose if he stayed single. “Does she know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Does she know you don’t love her?”

  “It’s an arranged marriage. Of course she does.”

  He wasn’t putting me off with a flip answer. “Does she know you probably never will?”

  “I may come to love her, given time…” Ezra stopped walking and looked at me for the longest moment, apparently struggling for a defense of the indefensible. “Certain--behaviors--may be more accepted in your world, but here, one must live a particular way or remove oneself to some isolated shore where others will not be unduly troubled by one’s…”

  “Certain behaviors?”

  He smiled at that but regret sparkled in his eyes. Denial didn’t run so deep that he wasn’t acutely aware of exactly what he was doing. “I do keep giving you reasons to disapprove of me, don’t I? If my company troubles you, I believe Derry might be at home, in which case—“

  “I’m not letting you off that easy, pal. You got me into this and you’re getting me out.”

  We took a cab back to the Row and went from shop to shop, where I showed off Whitby’s picture to the proprietors. Stony non-responsiveness was the order of the day, as I thought it might be. We found out that news of his arrest had already gotten around and no one seemed inclined to implicate themselves as co-conspirators. I was ready to talk Ezra into putting up some cash for bribes. The shops were starting to close and we were no nearer to finding the book than we’d been yesterday.

  “Are you ready to go home?”

  “Damned ready,” I said with a sigh as the door, with its bell jingling, shut behind us and the store owner shut off the gas with irritated emphasis.

  Ezra knew which home I referred to. “I’m sorry, Morgan. We’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

  “Because we had none today?”

  He put an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t be down-hearted. We’ll have a bit of supper and formulate a plan. Some of these booksellers are quite adept at hunting down books. If we enlist their help, we shall find it in no time.”

  “Maybe.” I wasn’t counting my chickens just yet. Whitby could’ve wrapped the book up and stuck it on the closet shelf to give his wife for Christmas for all I knew. I wriggled out from under Ezra’s arm and headed to the curb. “You realize the booksellers are going to want a little incentive to go digging for a book that’s got to be pretty obscure. And we don’t even have a title or an author.”

  “We may be able to discover it. I have some acquaintances who have a fondness for those sort of works and if they don’t have a copy, they may know the title. Or the spell, itself,” he added with a quirk of a smile.

  I cringed at the thought of spending a day with a group of flaky nineteenth century witch-wannabees. But Ezra was right. Consulting with the type who collected books of that nature seemed our best next step. I might not know my way around the time period, but I had access to people who did. And Ezra was thinking a little more clearly than I was at the moment.

  Dinner was done by the time we reached the house and no one around when we went inside. We explored the fridge—or rather, the icebox, which was literally a box with a big block of melting ice in it. There wasn’t a lot of space inside for much else, but Ezra, with the natural skill of the bachelor, managed to exhume cold roasted chicken. The pantry was even more promising, like a small grocery store compared to my own pantry at home. Loading ourselves down with bread, cheese, wine, and pie, we settled at the kitchen table and partook until we were stuffed. Not willing to leave the mess for Hannah, I cleaned up and Ezra assisted, getting a kick out of the new experience of washing and drying dishes.

  When we’d finished, I followed him out of the kitchen into a small backyard. The term “green thumb’ must have originated with Derry. The yard might have been small but it was Eden, with everything but the girl. A walk of gray stones meandered through profusely blooming flower beds to a leafy arbor crawling with red roses. An old plum tree stood on the other side of it and under that, on a stone bench, Derry sat in his shirtsleeves, smoking a pipe.

  “My two favorite nobblers,” he said cheerfully as we approached. “Henry wasn’t half hopping when he came in. Swore up and down his life was in danger.” The grin nearly split his face. “What the devil did you do to him, Morgan?”

  “Less than he deserved.” As Derry slid over, I sat next to him. “Did he bother to mention he was there when Whitby was arrested? And he didn’t make the first effort to find out about the book.”

  Derry looked at Ezra, who nodded. “I do believe Morgan intended to punch him in the nose.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first with that same yearning.”

  “Yeah, no surprise there.” I looked around at the flowers that poured from every available spot. “You did all this?”

  “Aye, with Kathleen and Ezra’s help. Care to take some roses home with you? To remember us by.”

  “I don’t think I’m in any danger of forgetting you.” I caught Ezra’s eye and he merely smiled. “Thanks for offering but I’ve already put history at enough of a risk.”

  Ezra sat on a bench tucked against the arbor wall. "What harm could a few rose petals cause?"

  I shrugged. “Maybe nineteenth century aphids are a hardier breed. I don’t intend to find out.”

  A firm tread on the path drew our attention. Derry snatched up the coat he’d left in a puddle on the ground and hastily shook it out as Kathleen appeared. She greeted us with a polite nod and a good evening before handing over a crisp white envelope to Ezra. “This came for you earlier. Derry, Henry stormed past me a moment ago without a word. What have you done to him?”

  Derry laughed aloud, then struggled guiltily to contain himself. “Oh Kath, it’s only what he’s done to himself. And that’s all it ever is, you know.”

  “Did something occur at the museum to warrant this behavior?” Kathleen inquired, turning to Ezra when it was clear she wasn’t going to get the facts from Derry.

  “I’m afraid so. Kathleen, I’m sorry—“

  “Never you mind,” she said, her glance skimming ripe with suspicion over me. “Don’t stay out too late, gentlemen. It’s damp.”

  Derry flashed me a rueful smirk behind her back. When she’d gone inside, he reached under the bench and hauled out a slim black bottle. Tugging out the cork, he took a long drink, then passed it to me. “Just the thing for warding off the damp.”

  I took a swig. Whiskey, strong enough to make my eyes water. Ezra hardly took any notice as he broke the seal on the envelope and removed the card inside. Both Derry and I saw the uneasy look that crossed his face.

  Derry leaned forward. “An invitation, is it?”

  “Yes. Adelaide Marchmont wanted us to dinner, Henry and I. Henry accepted, of course. I suppose she sent an invitation to make sure I would come along.”

  “The duchess, no less. Bravo, my boy.” Derry said it in a teasing way and Ezra gave him a reproving but good-humored look.

  “Yes, it is always a privilege to be the night’s entertainment in the best households.”

  I passed the bottle to Ezra. “Skip it. Don’t go.”

  “Henry's rather already promised.” He took a drink and passed the bottle back to Derry. “It really isn’t so terrible. They’re quite amused by it all.” He turned the card absently in his hands. “I suppose I should answer this. I think I shall say good-night to you gentlemen.”

  “Why does he do it, Derry?” I asked when Ezra had gone inside.

  “He wouldn’t say no to them that’s asked for his aid.”

  “The ghosts?” I clarified with a snort.

  Derry smiled. “The ghosts.”

  He invited me to bunk with him and aware of the temptation I wanted to avoid where Ezra was concerned, I took him up on it. But when he’d drifted off to sleep, I slumped down against the pillows, wakeful and half-wishing I’d bunked with Ezra again.

  “Sully, you there?” I whispered and glanced up at the moo
nlit wallpaper, almost expecting to see his shadow large upon it. Maybe he was hanging out with Ez and the two of them were having a chat about me. I shuddered at the thought. Ezra didn’t need any more ammunition to skewer me with.

  Putting thoughts of Ezra and sex out of my head—the latter a little more of a challenge--I burrowed into the pillow and tried to sleep. I succeeded for a couple of hours and woke thirsty--and a little hungry to boot. At home, that would’ve meant a beer and a slice of cold pizza. Here, I’d have to settle for a glass of milk and a sandwich. I went downstairs, less bothered by the dark now that I more or less knew my way around, and hit the kitchen, hoping for pie. My foraging was interrupted by a wisp of a figure in a white nightdress standing in the curtained doorway of the pantry.

  “Are you wanting some supper, sir?”

  I greeted her with a grin. “Hey, kiddo. Don’t suppose there’s any leftover pizza in here?” At her bewildered look, I shook my head. “A sandwich? Or pie. Something I won’t have to cook.”

  “You won’t have to cook, sir."

  “Something you won’t have to cook, either.”

  “Pie,” she said gravely and went to a shelf. The pies were covered by cloth. Removing one, she brought it to the table along with a plate.

  “You going to have a piece too?” I asked as she cut a generous slice.

  She seemed surprised by the question. “Oh no, sir. I’ve had supper.”

  “Oh. I thought you were looking for something to eat too.”

  She handed me the plate. “No, sir. I heard a noise. Thought it might be the cat prowling the pantry.”

  “You heard it from upstairs?”

  “No, sir. From bed.”

  “Your bed? Where do you sleep, under the kitchen table?”

  Her face lit up at that and she giggled. “No, sir. In there. Other side of the scullery.” She nodded toward a door off the kitchen I hadn’t noticed.

  “Really? Mind if I see?”

  “You want to see me bed?” A shadow of anxiety crossed her face.