Downtime

by James Allen

  "Sully tell you to give me the third degree?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "If he did, he ought to know better." Even as I spoke, I doubted Sully had said much, if anything. This was Ezra's initiative. He'd gotten the message early on that I was dedicated to my job and maybe thought all work and no play would make Morgan a dull boy. Why that particular part of my nature should bother him, when he knew it wasn't something he'd have to put up with over the long term, I couldn't figure. Nevertheless, I wanted to discourage this line of chit chat before Ezra took over where Reese had left off. "I like my life. Changing it to suit other people's perception of what I must need is not in the cards. Okay?"

  I could see the thinking going on behind those blue eyes before he finally just nodded. I couldn't help a breath of relief. I'd gone around and around on that topic one too many times with boyfriends in the past. Whether I was here for another day or a week or a month, I didn't want to spend it beating a horse that had long since given up the ghost.

  Ezra fell quiet and we traipsed on to the murder site. Buck's Row was pretty much as I'd pictured it. The buildings were barely twenty feet apart, leaving a narrow road that had probably been, barring a full moon, pitch dark at the time of the murder. From all reports, no one in any of the surrounding houses had heard a thing--which meant Polly had known and trusted her assailant well enough to not realize his intent until it was too late to scream. That, or she'd been too desperate or too drunk to sense the threat about him until his hands were around her throat. I couldn't imagine a reason for all the potential witnesses lying about having heard anything, unless they were either afraid of someone or protecting him. That was a theory I'd be easier about discarding once I'd had a chat with some of the neighbors, myself.

  I overcame my accent by identifying myself as an American newspaper reporter. The people we talked to seemed pleased at the idea of having their names travel to a world that likely none of them ever would. Even so, I pried no new information out of them. Phantom Jack had done his work swiftly and silently. I kept my eyes open for the smallest hint of a suspicious tone or manner, whispering to Ezra to do the same, in the hope he might sense something I couldn't. But neither of us came away with doubts about any of residents of Buck's Row or the surrounding streets.

  Hanbury Street was as unimpressive as Buck's Row. It was near dusk when we finally made our way to the next murder site and though I didn't expect to be able to do more than look around, I wasn't ready to head back home. We navigated the alley behind the houses which led to the backyard where Annie's body had been discovered and found the gate locked, probably for the first time in its existence.

  There was only one thing for it.

  "Morgan, what are you doing?"

  I gave him a look from my precarious position halfway over the fence. "I can't exactly go asking Scotland Yard for a search warrant, can I?" I dropped to the ground on the other side and looked around. It stunk like nobody's business and I realized that was because I was standing next to an outhouse. Indoor plumbing couldn't reach this neck of the woods fast enough, if you asked me. "You coming over?"

  Ezra wrapped his hands around the iron palings and peered at me, more dubious than ever. "I shall be your watch in case a constable comes along. Do hurry."

  There wasn't a whole lot to investigate. The cops had done their job and I was sure that within a day or two of the murder more than a few curious neighbors had contaminated any evidence left. The yard was smaller than my apartment patio back at home and according to reports, Annie had been found lying beside the door.

  Even if Jack had killed her somewhere else and moved her body, he couldn't have dumped her here without making a commotion. And yet no one had heard a thing. I had to assume noise coming from the alley late at night was so common that the residents would have been able to sleep right through it. God knew I could sleep through Friday morning garbage pick-ups without any problem. As long as Jack had prevented her from screaming, no one would necessarily think anything of noises resulting from a brief physical struggle.

  For now, I'd have to pin it to that. There were traces of dried blood on the ground near the gate and outside it, indicating she had been moved or had at least struggled mightily to save herself--or that the ensuing investigation by the police and other parties had tracked blood from a single location to different areas of the scene. Gathering samples was pointless, as was a search for prints.

  "Damn it," I muttered, giving the bleak little plot one last look.

  "Morgan," Ezra hissed through the bars just as the door opened behind me.

  I turned to see a short, grandmotherly woman, black skirts hoisted in one hand, heave herself down the steps in my direction and advance on me with energy born of indignation. "Here, I've a lock on that gate for good reason. I'll have an end to this poking about. Back the way you came."

  "Mrs. Richardson?" I yanked off my hat belatedly and offered her a gentlemanly bow. From behind me there was a muffled, derisive sound and I pretended I hadn't heard. "Mrs. Richardson, if I could just ask you a few questions--"

  "You've got cheek. What d'you think this is, a tour up the bleedin' Nile? You want a souvenir, help yourself." She gestured expansively toward the outhouse. "Then get out of our yard or I'll have the constable in."

  "I'm not a tourist, Mrs. Richardson. I'm a reporter for--"

  "Morgan," Ezra interrupted, all the humor fled from his tone.

  "Just a second, Ez. Mrs. Richardson--"

  "Morgan."

  The urgency in Ezra's voice finally forced me around, to trade Mrs. Richardson's annoyed stare for the scowling visage of the policeman standing at Ezra's shoulder. If I'd wondered how policemen in London--especially Whitechapel--could maintain order without a gun, I didn't need to wonder further. This fellow was big and burly enough to knock a few heads together and haul them off to jail without even taking the shine off his buttons.

  Whether he was bright enough to disbelieve the lie I intended to dish out, we were about to discover. But before I could offer my standard caught-trespassing excuse, Ezra spoke up. "Do forgive us, constable. You see, I've been taking my friend around town today, and Whitechapel's been rather in the papers, hasn't it, and as he's a reporter, well, you understand his interest. I hadn't quite expected he'd be over the fence so quick," Ezra added with a baleful look at me, "but, then, he's from America and they're rather excitable, you know."

  "Say no more, sir," the constable rumbled in a deep sympathetic bass. "The tourists have been thick as fleas and far more trouble." He nodded for Mrs. Richardson to come unlock the gate and as she did so with a glare at me, the constable leaned over to talk confidentially to Ezra. "If I was you, sir, I'd get him in hand right off and trot him 'round to some proper place he'd fancy--say, the Tower. At any rate, don't bring him back here."

  At his mention of the Tower, Ezra lost a little color, but managed a nod and a word of thanks as the constable stepped back and gestured for me to return to the other side of the gate. I was getting a little tired of being considered the idiot American but I couldn't deny I'd brought it on myself. I followed his orders, keeping my mouth shut only until we were around the corner and well out of earshot.

  "Excitable?"

  "Yes, rather like one of those--what do you call them? Jackrabbits?"

  "You know, the Tower is still on my list of things to do in 1888," I growled, futilely poking him in the ribs through the layers of shirt, vest, coat, and overcoat.

  He caught my wrist and gave it a quick squeeze. "You will want to keep me in a cheerful frame of mind, I think, if you want a properly cast spell when Charles recovers a copy of the book for us."

  "Resorting to blackmail already?" I shook my head. "Be careful what you ask for. I might drag you into that church," I warned with a nod at the towering spire up ahead, "and into a dark corner to have my way with you."

  His eyes widened. "You're quite set on seeing us arrested."

  "I'm sure we wouldn't be the first pa
ir to indulge in a little nookie behind a cozy pew," I commented, slowing down to get a better look at the building. "Damn. I'll give one thing. You Brits can build churches like nothing back home." Stark white stone rose from the huddle of soot-blanketed houses to a crowning steeple which seemed to pierce the storm clouds overhead. It was a handsome church in a sort of solemn way, impressive but not so inviting. The establishment right beside it, however, was another story. "Ten Bells?" There was something familiar in the name. "Want to get a bite to eat?" The church clock read six-thirty. No wonder I was so hungry.

  "In there?"

  "Why not?" I caught the wary look. "I think your reputation will survive."

  "It's not my reputation I'm worried for," he said as we moved toward a lit doorway that promised food, drink, and cover from the deepening chill in the air.

  "Never been in a pub brawl?"

  "Verily, no. I daresay you have."

  "One or two." The rain had started in earnest and we were not the only ones heading for shelter. In an atmosphere thick with smoke and noise, we found an unoccupied corner and I smoothed out my case file on the table to add some notes to it. Sully would've shaken his head at the scant progress I'd made today. It was sobering to realize another murder would soon follow the first two and I could not remember the facts that might give me a way to prevent it. I couldn't exactly confide in the police, even if I could have provided information to back up my story. Like as not, they'd assume I had something to do with the murders and haul me in.

  Ezra pulled me from my thoughts and directed my attention to a familiar face across the room. It took me a minute to recognize the fellow in the black coat and hat. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been dressed to beat the band and now he looked as somber as an undertaker.

  "Sid. What's he doing here?"

  "He may live hereabouts."

  "Yeah?" I looked at Ezra quizzically. "You don't think he's just--how did he put it? Trolling for roses amid the trash?"

  Ezra shook his head.

  "So what makes you think he lives around here?"

  "It isn't obvious?"

  "Isn't what obvious?"

  Ezra lowered his voice even though there was no way Sid could have heard us from twenty feet away. "That he isn't--well, a gentleman."

  I had to laugh. "You're such a snob. Just because a guy isn't born into wealth and packed off to Cambridge as soon as he can walk--"

  "It's more than that," Ezra retorted, a flicker of discomfort in the eyes that dropped to avoid mine. "It's the manner in which he makes his living."

  "Which is?"

  His gaze returned to my face, searching. "You don't know?"

  I was ready to kick him under the table. "I figured he got by the same as the rest of you rich kids, family wealth keeping you in tea and crumpets."

  "The money that keeps Sidney in tea and crumpets, as you say, doesn't come from his family, whomever they may be."

  Then it dawned on me. "Oh, okay. Rents himself out, does he?"

  The barmaid showed up, a momentary distraction providing greasy fish, steaming potatoes, and beer. I inspected the food after she'd gone, deemed it clean enough to be consumed, and picked up the conversation where we'd left off, though I knew Ezra wasn't finding it agreeable. He was not much for gossip, but I gently coerced the details from him. Jem and Sid had met many months ago during a rowdy party at a private residence that was frequented for the sort of trysting they couldn't get away with in more public venues. Sid had possessed what Ezra called a rougher edge back then, but he was a quick learner. Jem had cleaned him up and taught him how to pass in more polite society. So the vulgar side I'd seen of Sid wasn't the act; the fine clothes and polished accent were.

  "You don't really like Sid, do you?"

  Ezra looked even more uncomfortable with that question. "Sidney's a decent enough sort, I suppose. I don't think he can be good for Jem. Jem's changed since Cambridge, but he's seemed even worse lately."

  "Yeah? How?"

  Ezra poked at the fish with a fork as he mulled over the question. "He's courted Clara for the longest while without any promises exchanged and he finds even less contentment in his work. He's terribly restless. Easily distracted and more morose than he once was. He will not talk of what troubles him, not with his father or brothers, nor with me." He sighed. "We wish to help him but he won't allow it."

  Huh. "Ez, do you love him?"

  Blue eyes met mine with utter directness. "I do indeed, as a friend, which he and I long ago accepted must always be the case."

  I didn't know why I felt relieved to hear that. Maybe it was the idea of doing it with a guy who was in love with someone else. I hadn't thought Ezra had those kind of feelings for Jem Montague or for anyone. Of course, feelings of friendship could run pretty deep--and the men of Ezra's era seemed fairly open to letting those feelings show.

  I could certainly read what he was feeling now--pure alarm. Sid must be on his way over. "Just remember, you weren't born knowing which spoon to use, any more than he was."

  His gaze narrowed. "I am not a snob, Morgan Nash."

  "My dear boys!" And Sidney was upon us, ensconcing himself into the seat next to mine and leaning over the arm to wrap his around my shoulders. "Darling Morgan, you haven't run away yet. I'm so glad. And you look so deliciously rumpled. What have you been up to? Now don't tell. I shall guess. Rescuing Ezra from the devouring female of the species. Have I got it right?" A wicked grin flashed Ezra's way and I was amused as hell to see Ezra go red in the face.

  "Ezra would never kiss and tell," I commented, pushing my plate aside. "Nor would I," I added before Sidney could ask.

  The sparkle in Sid's eyes remained unvanquished. "I've heard the wedding is off. Have the two of you been disowned? I cannot believe you came all the way up for beer and potatoes."

  "We're just sight-seeing." Which was for the most part true, since I hadn't learned a damned thing new about the case.

  Sidney patted the shoulder of my faded coat, a knowing glint in his eye. "I quite understand. Slumming has become an amusement, you know, what with the intrigues about Whitechapel these days. But do be careful. Even in those clothes, manners will tell."

  "The reason that constable didn't arrest us on the spot," Ezra noted.

  I could see how a Victorian way of thinking might be difficult to avoid when you were Victorian. "So you don't believe a gentleman could have committed these murders?"

  "It seems unlikely."

  "Insanity and good breeding don't mix?"

  Ezra's smile was more of a good-natured grimace. "If you're going to accuse me again of being a snob--"

  I raised both hands. "I'm not. I promise. I really want to know what you think."

  "Well, I imagine he's a fellow who's had a difficult time of it and in consequence has become mentally--unsound." Ezra hesitated but when I nodded encouragement, plunged on with more confidence. "I think as a lad, he was not trained nor perhaps even attended to and any mischief he got into went unchecked. And surely his mother or sisters or some female influence was unduly harsh, or he would not have reason to be so unspeakably brutal in his attacks."

  I was impressed. "Not bad. Have you ever considered becoming a detective?"

  He looked pleased. "You agree with my assessment?"

  "I think your ideas are pretty solid. I agree he's male and probably suffered abuse in childhood. I'd guess he's late twenties, has been in trouble with the law before. He's employed, since the murders, so far, have occurred on weekends and since he's out prowling most of the night, I'd expect him to be single. In fact, I expect he's never been in any long-term relationship with a woman, although he's probably capable of disassociating to the point where he can seem socially normal. He can talk up a woman and lure her to an isolated area." I finished my beer and sat back, watching foam settle into the bottom of the glass. "I think he lives in the area and these women may even know who he is, but think him harmless. They trust him, right up to the point where it's too late to s
top him or call for help."

  Focused on my mental checklist, it took me a moment to notice both Ezra and Sid were way too quiet. Sidney's fascination was predictable enough, offset by a sardonic smirk the moment our eyes met. Ezra was--well, enchanted was the first thought that came to mind. While I hadn't done anything more than throw a quick and dirty profile together, he took it in like a revelation from above. If he kept this up, I was in danger of developing an ego bigger than the one Sully claimed I already had. "You think that's good, wait'll I catch the guy and get my name on the front page of the Times."

  "I should like to see your name in the Times." Sidney traced light fingers along my lapel. "And the rest of you anywhere else you fancy."

  The guy didn't let up. "You live around here, Sid?"

  Sid's gaze shifted slyly to Ezra. "None of us can escape our pasts, can we?"

  Ezra looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry--"

  "Quite all right, really." He leaned across the table, looking Ezra right in the eye. "We're all the same to your sort. What we trade for our beer and potatoes ain't proper barter. I don't suppose it matters that you and I have a lovely secret in common, eh?" He caught Ezra's hand and Ezra pulled away, frowning.

  "I'm worried for Jem," he said, then looked as if he wished he hadn't.

  As serious as I'd ever seen him, Sidney asked, "Just who was it now left him to bleed?"

  Ezra opened his mouth, then shut it and averted his gaze into his beer. I wanted to hear the answer to that. Instead, I took a shot at changing the subject. "Did you know Annie or Polly, Sid?"

  His face lit up, a wicked delight in his eyes. "Is there a soul alive who hasn't warranted your suspicion, Detective Nash?" He leaned too close. "Care to search me for a knife?"

  I snorted. "No, thanks. I was just wondering what you might've heard, if anything. Did you know the women?"

  "I've not dabbed it up with that lot, if that's what you're asking." Sidney sat back. "My dear old mum, bless her, she went about with them. I was for better things. Better than fourpence and a pot of gin, for certain."