A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7) (26 page)

The house was dark except for a few low-burning gas lamps in the halls. She managed to get downstairs, but had no idea where the kitchen was. One of the grandfather clocks sounded three chimes. Her stomach gurgled in response.

It was late, but maybe someone would still be up in the servants’ quarters and could help her find something. Of course, she had no idea where the servants quarters were either. But she’d seen enough Masterpiece Theater to know they were downstairs. Somewhere.

Quietly, she padded along through the halls. The house was enormous though and the servants’ quarters were well hidden. She started to backtrack when she noticed a light coming from a doorway. The distinct odor of cigar wafted down the hall to her. Maybe it was George. He’d help.

She retied the sash to her robe and made her way toward the light. She peeked inside, but couldn’t see anyone. Easing the already ajar door open a bit more, she stuck her head in.

All she could see was a curl of smoke drifting up over the back of a large wingback chair near the fireplace.
 

“George?”

Dr. Blackwood’s large, mustached face appeared around the edge of the chair. His bushy eyebrows shot up and after a moment’s surprise, he stood. “Lady Cross.”

“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, already starting to back out of the room.

“No, no,” he said, a sleepy, indulgent smile coming to his face. “I see I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.”

He held out his glass in question.
 

“No, thank you,” she said.

His eyes took her in, quickly, clinically, before he finished his drink in one long draw. “You don’t mind if I indulge, do you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and was already moving toward the drink cart.

“It might not be the best medicine for sleeplessness,” he said as he poured himself another glass, “but it is the most pleasant.”

He turned back and eyed her again. “Or the second most,” he said softly, almost to himself as his eyes drifted over her. They were heavy with drink and something else she couldn’t name and didn’t quite want to.

Although her robe was as tightly wrapped around her as possible, and her nightclothes thick, she still felt naked under his gaze. She tugged at the edges of her robe and wrapped her arms around waist.

His gaze drifted back up to her face then and he seemed to come back to himself and cleared his throat as he looked away.
 

Elizabeth repressed a shiver. She’d overheard two maids talking about the doctor the other day, one warning the other to avoid being alone with him, and here she was doing just that.
 

He walked slowly, and bit wobbly back to his chair. “You’re not suffering from one of Miss Vale’s headaches, are you?”

The way he said headaches made it sound like a euphemism. But for what?

Despite her fear, Elizabeth stepped further into the room. He was drunk, which was creepy, but it was also good, she realized. Between that and his weight, she could get away from him if she had to, as long as she kept a safe distance between them.

She walked around to stand behind the chair opposite his.
 

“Did you give Katherine something to help with her headaches?”

The doctor looked down into his glass. “She’s very clever, that one.”

Oh, she is that, Elizabeth thought. But what made the doctor think so?

His head lolled slightly to the side and he caught it, jerking it back up into position. His eyes were getting glossier, his focus waning and Elizabeth eased around to the front of the chair.
 

She moved closer to him and leaned down slightly. “Has she done something?”

Slowly, he lifted his gaze up to her. “Why are women such vile creatures?”
 

Taken aback, Elizabeth took a step away.

He looked at her and whispered hoarsely, “Why do we need you so badly?”

Elizabeth couldn’t stop the shiver that overtook her body. The doctor looked at her again, and started to reach out for her, but was interrupted by a voice at the door.

“Doctor?” It was Roderick, the doctor’s valet, standing in the doorway to the study.
 

Elizabeth tensed, but tried to look casual. If Lizzy Stride were to be believed, Roderick was not above doing the doctor’s dirty work and she didn’t want to give him any cause to do any now.

He came in, shooting Elizabeth a cold look, and addressed the doctor the way one would a child.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said. “Time for bed, I think, sir.”

The doctor grunted. His eyes shifted to Elizabeth briefly as Roderick helped him out of his chair.

They stopped at the entrance to the room and doctor turned and bowed sloppily. “Good night, my dear.”

With an imperious wave, he stumbled down the hall. Roderick paused before following after him and shot her a look that said in no uncertain terms—
whatever happened here, you’d be wise to keep your mouth shut
.
 

Her stomach churned again, but this time it wasn’t because of dinner.
 

S
IMON
’
S
LUNGS
BURNED
. H
IS
legs ached and his mouth was bone dry. He hadn’t felt so damned good in ages. He’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to run himself ragged on the pitch. Simon had been reluctant to play, but between Elizabeth’s encouragement and George’s refusal to accept any other outcome, he’d finally agreed. And now, he was glad he had. He’d been a tolerable cricket player in his youth, and it was nice to know he hadn’t forgotten everything.

Of course, that was twenty years ago, as his aching back would testify and re-testify with vigor tomorrow. Even as out of practice he was, he’d done fairly well. He was no match for young Almovar and the twins from Brighton, but he held his own.

Despite his pride, he was relieved when the final wicket of the morning was taken. Due to a general lack of fitness and perhaps too much alcohol the previous night, the next innings, and the match, were called off. It was just as well. He wasn’t sure he could have made his ground for another run if his life depended on it.
 

Sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
 

“Excellent stuff!” a tall, gangly man called Masters said as the teams shook hands. “You have the makings of a fine batsman.”

Simon smiled his thanks. The day had been pleasant. Blackwood was blessedly absent. Apparently, he was spending the morning recuperating from his evening.

The thought of Blackwood though soured Simon’s mood, and he instinctively sought out Elizabeth. She looked very much at home and quite lovely in her white dress and broad-rimmed sunhat. She waved to him from a spot in a canvas recliner in the impromptu stands that had been set-up on the edge of one the estate’s lush lawns.
 

As he grew near, she grinned up at him, handing him a towel and a glass of lemonade.

“Did we win?” she asked.

Simon laughed. “It’s not over. I doubt it ever will be. Roxbury’s team was trouncing us.”

George passed by and clapped Simon on the back. “Well, to be fair. I think without Lord Willingham you never had a chance.”

Lord Willingham was a round little man who’d given up in the first innings and taken a nap by a large oak tree somewhere in the general vicinity of his cow corner position.

“Someone go make sure he’s alive, will you?” Roxbury called out, pointing to the still napping Willingham.

Simon wiped his forehead and neck with the towel, and drank half of his lemonade without taking a breath.

Elizabeth’s smile grew even broader. “We should do this more often.”

Simon snorted. “A pick-up game of cricket?”

She stepped close to him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this relaxed.”

He nodded and flipped the towel around his neck. “I wish I—”

“Good game,” Graham said, coming around to shake hands.

“Match,” Simon corrected him.

Graham shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll never get it all straight. I was never much for team sports.”

“You did very well,” Simon said with a smile behind his lemonade glass. “For an American.”

Graham laughed and then turned back to where Katherine Vale had been sitting. She’d left barely an hour into the contest.

“She’s been getting worse,” he said quietly. “Katherine.”

Simon felt fresh tension join the soreness in his muscles. “How so?”

Graham frowned and shook his head. “It’s like she’s a different person somehow.”

Simon and Elizabeth exchanged worried glances.

“What do you mean?”

Graham sighed. “At first I thought it was because of those memory lapses.”

Several weeks ago, Graham had asked Simon if he’d been experiencing any peculiar omissions in his memory. He’d considered lying, but Graham was astute and if Vale was suffering from them, it could work to their advantage. She was, and so was Graham.
 

“But it’s more than that,” Graham continued. “It’s the way she looks at me sometimes. I’m not the nervous type, but it’s unsettling.”

Simon could well imagine.
 

They’d kept the details of his and Vale’s futures from him. It was a difficult decision, knowing the jeopardy he was potentially in, but they couldn’t risk affecting the timeline by telling him. Knowledge of the future was a dangerous thing.

If only they could send her away for the duration. But with no cause, they couldn’t exactly tie her up somewhere for the next month, as tempting as it was. She had a part to play in this, the starring role in the final act, locked up in Bedlam if all went well. And for now, all they could do was watch and wait.

“Tea is being served in the tent,” Roxbury called out.

Those who’d lingered started toward to the large white canvas tent that had been erected not far from the pitch. The three of them slowly made their way toward it.

“I see that the doctor was indisposed this morning,” Graham said.

“I’m guessing he’s busy taking some of that headache powder he’s been giving to Katherine,” Elizabeth said.

Graham pulled up short. He cocked his head slightly to the side. “What?”

“She went to him for her headaches,” Elizabeth said.

“Oh,” Graham said, having clearly been in the dark about that. “Of course.”

He frowned in thought.

“Something wrong?” Simon asked. He could think of no aboveboard reason as to why Vale had kept her visits with the doctor a secret from Graham.

Graham arched an eyebrow. “Well, it is a bit troubling that she’s sought help from our prime suspect, isn’t it?”

And if she were the one who killed Jack the Ripper and changed time, that made it a little more than troubling, Simon thought. He nodded in agreement.

“Any progress on that front?” Graham asked. “Any clues linking him to the murders?”

“Just a feeling,” Elizabeth said, keeping her late-night adventure to herself.

“And you?” Simon asked Graham. “You’ve found nothing else?”

He shook his head. “About the doctor? No. Nor anyone else. Whoever our Jack is, he’s quite clever.”

“You almost sound like you admire him,” Simon said.

Graham sighed. “I wouldn’t say that, but he’s avoided being seen so far. No ordinary man could do that.”

“Not without help,” Elizabeth said.

Graham rolled down his shirtsleeves and began to button the cuffs. “The partner theory? Possible.”

“You’re sure you didn’t see anyone else suspicious the night of the murders? Anything that might help,” Simon asked.
 

“No, it’s as I told you. The first night I was too far to see anything, and the second I was rudely interrupted by the Vigilance Committee. They locked me up before the night even began. I’d just arrived in Whitechapel when they said hello,” he said, rubbing the back of his head where they’d knocked him unconscious.

Some niggling sensation took root in Simon’s mind. Something about that wasn’t right. “What time was that again?”

“Couldn’t have been past midnight,” Graham said. “I’d barely even gotten there.”

“You’re sure?”

Graham looked at him in confusion. “I’m certain.”

Simon nodded. “Of course.”

After a few more paces, he stopped walking and made a show of patting his pockets. “I think I left something.”

He took hold of Elizabeth’s arm to keep her with him and added, “We’ll catch up with you later?”

Graham nodded and kept on toward the tent. Simon watched him, wondering what had just happened. And, more importantly, why.

“What did you forget?” Elizabeth asked.

Simon stared after Graham, a troubled feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Graham just lied to us.”

Elizabeth looked back at Graham as he neared the tent. “What do you mean?”

“Victor said he saw Graham
just
before Annie Chapman’s murder. Minutes before. He made a point of it.”

The light dawned in Elizabeth’s eyes. “That was close to four in the morning.”

“Certainly not before midnight,” Simon said.

“Why would Graham lie about that?”

Simon clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. But it makes me wonder just what else he’s has been lying about.”

~~~

That night after dinner, the company didn’t split into two groups—men and women—as was the custom, but instead all gathered together in the grand salon. Simon was glad of that for many reasons, not the least of which was he needn’t be separated from Elizabeth.
 

They’d gone from having an ally to, well, frankly, Simon wasn’t sure what Graham was anymore. Perhaps they’d been fools to trust him at all. He was, after all, still with Katherine Vale despite their, albeit vague, warnings. And now the lie. How many others had he told?
 

Simon glanced around the room. Graham stood near the piano, smiling amiably as the evening’s entertainment continued. Roxbury and Masters’ wife were singing a song from Gilbert & Sullivan’s
HMS Pinafore,
“Things Are Seldom What They Seem.” Willingham had even recited some poetry earlier. The evening was veering dangerously close to becoming an amateur talent night. Thankfully, it stopped just shy of that.