Downtime

by James Allen

  I didn’t like her thinking of me as some sort of pervert stalking her and I wasn’t going to let her go on thinking it. “I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, kiddo. I was just curious to see what your room’s like, that’s all.”

  She seemed puzzled. “It ain’t much to see, sir. You can look at it, as you like.” She led me back to a room filled with pails and a mop and various other cleaning supplies but no bed. Another doorway led to a tiny room with a single window looking out upon the back garden. A narrow bed with a white iron frame stood in the corner, a wooden table with a white porcelain bowl tucked in another corner. Painfully spare understated it.

  “Where do you keep your clothes?”

  The window seat was hinged and she opened one side of it. Inside was a neatly folded dress much like I’d see her wearing the day before, a couple of aprons, a shawl, and a straw hat. “What do you keep in the other one?” I asked, as she shut the seat.

  “I couldn’t tell you that, sir,” she said, turning red.

  I caught on. “Gotcha. So I guess I woke you up, huh? I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t know you were in here.”

  “It’s all right, sir. Gentlemen often come downstairs at night. For a bite to eat,” she added hastily.

  I knew that wary look. “Don’t let any of them bother you too much, sweetheart. Including me.” I grinned at her. “Thanks for the pie. Go on back to bed. I’ll clean up after myself.”

  She’d check to make sure I did, but I couldn’t blame her for that, after witnessing Kathleen’s relentless housekeeping. Finishing my pie, I washed the plate and put it away. Going back to bed had only marginal appeal but it was too early to be up. I was on the stairs when I heard the soft plink of piano keys coming from the parlor.

  I had a good idea who was practicing his scales at two in the morning. I listened for a few minutes from the shadow of the doorway. He could play, the show-off. I didn’t recognize the piece, some classical thing, but he knew what he was doing. Suspecting I could come into the room and he still wouldn’t notice, I gave it a shot. Ez stayed lost in his thoughts and they didn’t seem to be pleasant ones.

  I leaned over to take a look at the sheet music. “Brahms. That’s the best you can do?”

  At my comment, he looked up and a tired smile lifted his lips. “Wagner did not seem appropriate before sunrise. You’re having trouble sleeping here, aren’t you?”

  I shrugged. “It’s taking a little getting used to. Being shuffled from bed to bed doesn’t exactly help, you know.”

  He nodded soberly. “I do realize. However, I cannot offer anyone’s bed but my own for the remainder of the time you're with us.”

  I was ready to take him up on it, despite all temptations. I sat on the piano bench and he slid over a couple of inches to accommodate me. The row of keys were yellowed and I realized they must be ivory. Ezra folded his hands in his lap, watching me with the smile still on his lips. “You can play?”

  “Sure.”

  I gave my knuckles a good crack and, finding middle C, plunged into your basic rendition of Chopsticks. The ivory keys took a different sort of push than the gleaming plastic on my mom’s piano but I got through the piece without making too much racket.

  Ezra’s eyes shone, lips twitching. “My dear fellow. That was quite wonderful.”

  Despite his amusement, he sounded awfully sincere. Trying to spare my feelings, I figured. “Yeah, right. I’m a regular Mozart. So, come on. Let’s see what you can do.” I knew he could play rings around me. I just wanted him to relax a little before I got tough and made him go upstairs to get some sleep. Keeping the sorcerer sane and alert was as important as finding the magic that would get me home.

  Ezra tried again to swallow a grin and failed utterly this time. “I shall do my best. But I fear it will not compare.”

  He played the Brahms, with a wistful quality that had me sinking into my own thoughts, homesickness coming back. Shaking it off, I distracted myself by settling my attention on him. His smile had faded, and blue eyes dark with the intensity of his concentration scanned the sheet music only intermittently. He knew the piece by heart and he put his heart into it. In the silence following the final notes, we sat without talking, until finally he let out a breath and fixed me with a concerned gaze. “I’m keeping you up.”

  Pushing to my feet, I plucked at his sleeve. “Come on. We’re going to get you back to sleep.”

  Concern turned to uneasiness. “And what miracle do you have in your bag of tricks to accomplish that?”

  “I’ve had insomnia from time to time. I know all the tricks there are.”

  “Really?” He didn’t sound convinced as we started up the stairs. “You don’t intend to mesmerize me, do you?”

  “Haven’t I already?”

  I heard a soft snort behind me and took that as an affirmative. I thought I had him thinking about something besides ghosts, but back in the room, he eyed the bed as if he half-expected it to lurch up off the floor and eat him alive. He took his time getting into his nightshirt. When he finally climbed under the quilt, he remained sitting, his arms wrapped over his knees. I hit him lightly with a pillow. “You planning to sleep ever again?”

  “I did sleep. Last night.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. You’re good for a few weeks, then.”

  The pensive look melted into a smile. He lay down and clasped his hands over his chest, seeming as ready for sleep as Rip Van Winkle after a hundred year nap. “Whatever you intend, do be quick and merciful about it.”

  “You kids today, you want everything now, now, now.” I tucked the pillow behind me. “Okay. Close your eyes.”

  “You are the oddest duck,” he murmured, but followed my instruction.

  That was a nervy statement, coming from him. Letting it pass, I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Take a deep breath and try to relax. What we’re going to do is get your imagination to work for you instead of against you.”

  “Think to cure me of this madness, do you?”

  Under the humor in his voice ran the faintest thread of desperation. I gave his shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze. “You just need a little rest. Lack of sleep does weird things to the brain.” I could feel the tension in the muscles under my hand. I did know one certain cure for insomnia and it was damned tempting to share it. But as willingly as my own imagination encouraged me to take advantage of Ezra’s vulnerability to seduce the hell out of him, something else in me balked. The guy was engaged. Maybe he shouldn’t be, but he was. And if I wrecked that, I couldn’t predict what effect that would have on his life, let alone how it could affect things historically.

  Redirecting my libido with the promise of a hot shower in the morning, I focused on getting Ez to sleep. “I want you to picture a meadow on a hillside. Flowers, clouds, sunshine. The whole bit. And in the meadow is a flock of sheep.”

  He cocked an eye at me. “How many?”

  “Close your eyes. Now, imagine a fence, wood, about three feet high. Got it? The sheep have to jump the fence to get back home. You’re going to count them one by one—“

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Give it a shot, okay?” I moved my hand off his shoulder, a little too aware of the effects of physical contact. “Putting bedmates to sleep is not my specialty but I’m making an exception in your case. Now close your eyes, my little shepherd, and count.”

  After another dubious look at me, he did so, and was sound asleep in all of ten seconds. I didn’t kid myself that counting sheep had actually done the trick. He was exhausted, despite his anxiety. He’d just needed to lie down and close his eyes. Satisfied that he was out for the night, I slumped back and gratefully closed my own eyes. When I woke, he was already up and gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Still half asleep, I felt for my watch and remembered it was busted. I needed a new one. I could barely keep track of the day, date, and century; I sure as hell was going to keep track of time. Sliding out of bed, I headed for the
bathroom to find it occupied. At my knock, Ezra opened the door to let me in and the hot bath I’d thought I might have to indulge in became an absolute necessity. He had just bathed himself, and stood in the patch of sunlight pouring through the curtains as he toweled himself dry. The play of lean muscle across his back made me suck in a slow breath, all too aware of the effect he was having on my own anatomy. He turned around and I risked another peek, to get an eyeful of one well-proportioned physique, a chest lightly covered with brown hair that faded away at a smooth stomach not yet softened by Kathleen’s cooking, and…damn. Talk about well-proportioned. I got barely a glimpse before the towel obscured the view, but it was enough to make me want to see more.

  And I wanted to do a whole lot more than see.

  Wondering why the hell I was torturing myself, I turned back to the tub and, peeling off the nightshirt, submerged myself before I passed out on the tile. Surfacing, I blew out a breath and opened my eyes to a wet veil of hair.

  “Morgan.”

  I pushed the hair out of my eyes. Ezra was sitting on the rim of the tub. He’d wrapped the towel around himself just a little too late to be of any help. Fighting the inclination to pull him down into the water with me, I put on what I hoped looked like a nonchalant grin. “Got any bubble bath?”

  I wondered if it was possible to keel over dead from too many thwarted erections. It was fast becoming a real concern. Ezra, if he noticed this time, revealed no sign of it in his cheerful smile as he produced the straight razor and mug. Realizing what he was going to ask, I hastily assured him I could handle the shave on my own. He tilted his head, a dubious twist to his mouth. “Are you certain? I don’t mind—“

  “It’s no problem.” And it wasn’t. Shaving, anyway. Taking the mug and razor from him at that particular moment would be a bit of a challenge. Luckily he left it behind for me, along with a towel, before he left me to my bath: me and an erection aching for more than a few quick strokes in a lonely tub. Not about to test the theory that suffering is good for the soul, I temporarily tamed the need and, shaving without inflicting too much damage to my skin, dressed and went down to breakfast.

  Henry was hidden from view behind the newspaper and Kathleen was at the stove, both giving me no more than a glance as I slid into the seat between Derry and Ezra. Judging from the glum faces and the silence all around, Henry had decided to focus his annoyance on everyone this morning. As for Kathleen, I suspected she was none too pleased at the discord going on in her house. Of course it was my fault Henry was in a snit, since I’d scared the pants off the asshole yesterday, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to apologize for it.

  Ezra silently passed me the biscuits, along with a rueful look. I shrugged. Attempted guilt trips brought out the obstinate side of me. While people who knew me, including Sully, had always felt that described every side of me, the fact remained. Henry was a jerk who didn’t deserve the power they gave him. I decided to usurp it.

  “Anything interesting in the paper?”

  I felt the startled reaction that ran around the table. Henry lowered the paper to cast a cold look at me. If he caught on that an apology wasn’t forthcoming, he still answered the question, directing his reply to Derry. “It seems that fellow’s still on the prowl over in the East End. I must say these inspectors seem to be flailing about in it, don’t they?” He put down the paper and stirred his tea. “Someone knows who’s doing in those girls. If they’d simply offer an enormous reward—say, thirty pounds—I daresay someone would haul the fellow over within the day to collect it.”

  Kathleen raised an eyebrow. “There has surely been a reward offered already.”

  “Not that I’ve read of. And it appears they haven’t asked a single medium in to assist. Can you believe it?”

  Henry looked pointedly at Ezra. Ez, intent on spreading an excess of strawberry jam over a biscuit, ignored Henry with a determination that made me proud. Giving Henry a cool smile, I asked, “Why don’t you go down there and offer your help?”

  “I just may do so.” He tapped the spoon on the edge of the cup. “I just may.”

  “You’ll do no such thing." Kathleen took a seat beside her brother. “Nor will Ezra. It’s much too dangerous, that part of town. If the police request Ezra’s help, they’ll go into Whitechapel with him. T'would be foolhardy to go alone.”

  Whitechapel…

  I could all but feel Sully smacking me on the back of the head, and I’d never deserved it more. I snatched up the newspaper and scanned the page. God Almighty, it was him. And those cops who’d nabbed me, they’d thought…

  “They thought I was Jack,” I sputtered. No wonder Mrs. Doring and her sister had been so frightened. But they hadn't feared me. They'd feared him.

  “Jack?” Derry’s voice at my elbow broke into my train of thought. “Jack who, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  It didn't seem possible. The Ripper was a long-cold case file, not a living, breathing man walking the same streets I’d been walking the past few days. Yet here in the paper were the glossed-over details of the most recent murder, and the latest police theories thrown in for good measure. “Jack the Ripper,” I clarified, still trying to grasp that I’d landed right in the son-of-a-bitch’s midst.

  Derry looked at me blankly. “You’re not speaking of this fellow in the Times?”

  “Yeah, I am. I guess you’re not calling him the Ripper yet or you’d have recognized the name. He’s--well, he’s something of a legend.”

  Aware of the dismay I was generating, I stopped myself from telling them anything more. Then I remembered that not everyone at the table knew that I knew a hundred years more history than they. Uneasiness shimmered in Kathleen's usually implacable gray eyes. “Just what are you saying, Mr. Nash?” Her gaze flickered to the newspaper and I jumped in before she could form any mistaken conclusions.

  “I’m not the Ripper, Miss Neilan. It’s—complicated—“

  “Who are you, then?” she demanded.

  “Just who you’ve been thinking all along. Morgan Nash. A regular guy, just like the rest of your lodgers, ma’am. With one little difference.” I sighed. “I was born in nineteen sixty-nine.”

  Her lips parted for an instant, then pressed together in a thin line. She looked at Derry, who groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “We were meaning to tell you, love, truly. As soon as we’d figured out how.”

  Her gaze returned to me and she shook her head. “No. How?”

  Derry and Henry both began to explain at once, until a quiet, grim statement cut through the chatter. “It’s my fault.”

  I realized Ezra had not said a word until now. He raised troubled eyes to Kathleen's. “I should have told you myself, before this. There was a book at the museum, a medieval manuscript full of incantations and the like.”

  Derry winced and I noticed Kathleen’s grip on his arm. Ezra let out a soft breath and laid clasped hands on the table. “We were just having a bit of fun. We didn’t honestly think anything would come of it. Henry was attempting to translate the Latin—“

  “I was doing all right,” Henry muttered, then choked back whatever else he wanted to say at a glare from Ezra, who continued quickly.

  “I took the book, only meaning to assist, and I recited some sort of—well, I suppose it was a spell—aloud and…” He looked at me and the corners of his mouth lifted with a wry affection. “We pulled Morgan back through time over a hundred years.”

  “Gor’blimey,” came a small voice from behind Kathleen and I looked past her to the pale face gazing upon me with wide-eyed awe. Kathleen was less awed than Hannah and more skeptical. All the same, it took her a long minute to find her voice.

  “Derry, I would like a word with you. Upstairs, please.” Disengaging Hannah’s grasp on her sleeve, Kathleen left the kitchen and Derry, heaving a sigh, followed.

  “Well, that’s done it,” Henry said, "I think I'll be off before she comes back down." He left for work and I asked Ezra if he was going to do the same.<
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  “Henry has told Mr. Brooke I’ve come down with influenza.” His lips quirked, a sparkle of guilt in his eyes. “Just for a few days. Until we find the book and send you home.”

  I shook my head. “Lying to your boss. The first step on the road to unemployment, you know.”

  “Losing my place would be inconvenient. Losing you to Newgate for six months would be rather worse.”

  “I’m glad you have so much faith in me.”

  “In your ability to annoy policemen, yes, my faith is unshakable.”

  I fought down a grin, not wanting to encourage him. “You going to visit me at the hotel?”

  Sympathy flashed in Ezra’s eyes. “Derry may yet talk her into letting you stay. Don’t give up hope. If it comes to that, we will keep a watchful eye on you, you can be sure.”

  I knew Ezra would, anyway; he was still dealing with a hefty amount of guilt. Getting to my feet, I took the newspaper with me. I wanted to give the article a closer read. Jack the Ripper I’d always dismissed as a mentally ill sadist who got his jollies cutting up the few women who would, out of sheer desperation, spend any time alone with him. I’d never bought into most of the theories concerning Jack and I wasn’t about to start. But the idea of working a little investigation of my own intrigued me.

  “Morgan?” Ezra brought me back to the present with a gentle poke in the ribs. He spared the newspaper a dubious glance. “I would advise you not to bring up the matter of the Ripper, as you call him, when we visit with Madame Corinna. She has not been consulted, either, and like Henry, is not particularly pleased about it.”