Downtime (44 page)

I furrowed my brow. “Not still the house on Berner, is it?” It was a risky question and Ezra hesitated just long enough to prompt the barkeep to jump in, giving us an address right around the corner.

Night was falling fast, stormy weather returning for an encore, and as we approached the house, Ezra suggested trying to locate Sid psychically. I vetoed that right away.

“Not again. I was an asshole to talk you into it before. Anyway, our time’s better spent getting our hands on evidence for a conviction.”

Ezra still wasn’t comfortable with the whole breaking and entering thing. “What is it we’re looking for? A knife?”

“Knives, guns, surgical instruments. Handwriting samples to match to those letters someone’s been sending the cops. Any kind of written evidence. A journal, diary, letters, even a grocery list. Clothing. Anything he might have taken from one of the victims…” I hesitated. Collecting trace evidence was pointless. We had to come up with proof that would suit Scotland Yard without creating more suspicion about my involvement. That meant sticking with the basics. “A fingerprint to match to the one I took off Catherine’s tin. Stored body parts, blood stains—”

“Body parts?” he said, appalled.

I gave him a sympathetic clap on the back. I’d been in the dwellings of more than a few killers and it usually proved a uniquely disturbing experience, one I didn’t think Ezra needed to be exposed to. Sid had layers to him I had only seen the frayed edges of, so far. I had a feeling the deeper I dug, the uglier it would get. “Maybe you should stand guard at the door. Let me know if he comes back.”

Sid’s was the only house from which no light shone. Getting inside was easy enough; getting around in the dark was another matter. Wishing fervently for a flashlight, I fumbled my way into the front hall and got my hands on a table lamp—one that was hot to the touch. Leaving it unlit, I eased my hand under my coat and unsheathed my gun. I didn’t know how long it took the average oil lamp to cool down, but I wasn’t pressing my luck.

The parlor, a grim, sparsely furnished echo of Kathleen’s cheery nook, was deserted. It was also surprisingly clean, as was the kitchen, pristine and reeking of an odor that took me a minute to recognize: lye, strong enough to be damned near overpowering. I wondered if he had been using it to clean bloodstains from his clothes. There was a different sort of smell on the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. I saw the source of it, a vase of roses, heads drooping, petals curled and blackened. Roses, like the one he’d given me—and Liz—and perhaps the others as well. Petals littered a threadbare rug and I crept across it silently to a closed door, listening for any evidence of occupancy. As voices drifted out, I tightened my grip on the gun. He had brought someone home with him. Someone who was still alive—and who was going to stay that way.

I went in without bothering to knock and got an unexpected eyeful of two bodies clothed only in the glow of candlelight, rocking back and forth on the bed in the corner. Both were decidedly male—but the man straddling Sid wasn’t big enough to be Jem. If he had been, he would have damn near killed Sid with the fists that pounded him over and over again. I grabbed a sweat-slicked shoulder before he could fracture Sid’s skull with his bare hands. His head jerked up, eyes wild fury, mouth beaded with saliva as he breathed harshly in my face—and I felt a nasty shock of recognition.

George Edward Blanchard.

“
Son
of a—” I didn’t know whose ass I wanted to kick more. I dragged him off Sid and shoved him into a chair, where he sat just staring at me as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. I picked up what I figured must be his pants and threw them at him. “You are one goddamned piece of work, Blanchard.” I held my gun on Sid, who lay limply on the bare mattress, breathing hard. “Get up, Sid. And get your clothes on.”

He grinned, then winced and licked his bloodied lip. “You Americans. No sense of delicacy.” Nevertheless he got up and pulled on a pair of pants. George, his rage subsided by a growing awareness that he wasn’t safely in the closet any longer, groped around for the rest of his clothes, all the while sending furtive glances my way. I ignored him, my eye on Sid as he buttoned his trousers and smiled slyly at me. “Have you ever bedded two chaps at once, dear Morgan? We might have some fun before you turn us over to the rozzers.”

“The police?” George rasped, scrambling into his pants. “You’re taking us to the police?”

“It won’t be the drop for you, love,” Sid assured him cheerily. “Two years’ penance and you’re off to the continent.”

I wanted to think Sid’s nonchalance was part of the act, but something in his eyes convinced me nothing scared him, not even the prospect of being put to death. Still I kept the gun trained on him, just in case he was imagining he could make an escape. “Get dressed—”

George Blanchard might be on the soft side, but he packed a mean punch. As it slammed into my ribs, I realized I’d been keeping a close eye on the wrong person. His momentum knocked me flat and he landed on top of me, forcing the air from my lungs and the gun from my hand. As the Glock clattered into a corner, the muzzle of George’s little popgun dug into my throat. “Think yourself clever, following me around,” he sputtered. “You’ll have a bullet for your trouble. I won’t go in the dock, I promise you.”

He thought I had been tailing him. I might’ve laughed, but the toy gun was a little too firmly planted in a vulnerable artery. “Hate to break it to you, but you aren’t the one I’ve been chasing. Tell him, Sid. Or should I say Jack?”

Sid shrugged into his coat and looked down at me with languid amusement. “I’ll have my guinea first, I think.”

The pressure under my jaw eased and I put my all into keeping up the distraction. “Shame on you, Sid. Soliciting gentlemen without the proper introduction. Didn’t think you’d stoop to compromising what principles you have left.”

He laughed. “Caught out, am I? What a clever boy you are. I think reason and love must keep good company after all.”

He got a real kick out of baiting me. But I didn’t bite, and George missed that particular taunt completely, apparently knocked for a loop by the revelation that he had just bedded Jack the Ripper. It seemed the right moment to relieve him of his gun. But as I grabbed his wrist, self-preservation kicked in and he struggled to keep the weapon.

“Stop!”

Jesus—was that Ezra? The quiet threat in his voice was impressive and I hoped like hell he had the means to back it up. I twisted, throwing a startled George to the floor and his gun went off, sending a bullet into the roof. I caught sight of Ezra in the doorway, the Glock in a wobbly grip.

“Hey, Ez, good timing. Shoot them.”

His grip got even more unsteady. “Shoot them?”

“Yeah. George first.”

“You can’t kill me,” George snapped. “Will you do that to Charlotte?”

It wasn’t the brightest thing to say. Suddenly Ezra looked a whole lot more confident with the gun in his hand. “How do I cock the damned thing?” he demanded, scowling at the Glock’s clean lines.

“You don’t.” I got to my feet and hauled George to his, yanking his gun away. “Aim it and shoot.”

“I take it I’ve more than one bullet?”

My grin came back, even darker than before. “All you need.”

“Ezra!” George couldn’t quite submerge the fear under his fury. “He’s a madman. They’ll hang you!”

Sid didn’t seem to think he was in any danger of being shot—or he didn’t care. He was smiling as George cowered beside him. “Aim and shoot, dear fellow. Cocks be damned.”

But Ezra didn’t. He held the gun on them both while I relieved Sid of his knife and instructed him to finish dressing before I cuffed him. He put up no resistance and though I sensed some regret, I suspected it had nothing to do with his crimes.

“I didn’t wish to fall foul of you,” he said. “I like you, nearly as much as Jem, you know. But I’m relieved you’ve tumbled to it. I’m tired.” Something surfaced briefly in his dark eyes, something that was not sly amusement or bare lust. I might have labeled it pain, but the word didn’t do it justice. Maybe a self-awareness that his soul was blackened beyond cleansing, beyond what anyone in this world had the power to heal. That awareness gleamed, then it was gone—and his face relaxed, reminding me disquietingly of a drowning man who’d stopped struggling, to slip peacefully beneath the waves. He sighed. “Yes, quite tired. Do give a fellow his cigarettes, will you? Rozzers smoke the most vile tobacco. It must account for their ill temper, don’t you think?”

I didn’t intend to feel sorry for him. Jack the Ripper in my lifetime had become a symbol of the worst evil in mankind. When it came to serial killers, people generally looked for the monster in the man without ever expecting to see a sign of humanity in the monster. The flash of humanity I’d seen in Sid made me sick at heart. Maybe we didn’t create all our monsters, but we pushed a damned lot of them past the point of saving.

I picked up Sid’s cigarette case and stuffed it into his coat pocket. “Don’t worry about the police. Getting their hands on you will cheer them up no end.” I gave a subdued George a glance and considered hauling him in too. But despite everything he’d done to us, I had a feeling Ezra would veto that for Charlotte’s sake. “Get out of here, Blanchard, before you contaminate any more evidence.”

I steered Sid toward the door. Ezra stepped out of the way as we passed, and Sid leaned toward him and smirked. “Tell the whores Saucy Jack sends his love.”

Ezra handed me back my gun and looked at Sid as if he wanted to understand, but simply couldn’t. “You may tell them, yourself. They’re waiting for you.”

Sid’s brows lifted. “Are they? Just outside the house, then?”

“Just outside your life, if you like.” Ezra wasn’t joking. I saw it and I think Sid did too. He hesitated before stepping out into the night and remained silent on the walk to Leman Street. Only upon his introduction to Inspector Pimblett did he slip back into the familiar persona of the ever-jovial, lascivious Sid. I gave Pimblett a statement and explained the likelihood of matching Sid’s fingerprint to the one I found. To his credit, Pimblett listened, while a sergeant took down everything I said. I’d half-expected him to lock me up too, for disregarding his order to stay out of Whitechapel. But he was entirely polite and cooperative, so much so that I wondered who’d been on his ass for not bringing the Ripper in after the last two murders.

Whether or not he believed we had our killer in Sid, he sent men with me first thing Sunday morning to Sid’s house to go over it from top to bottom in search of additional evidence. We found a goldmine. He had taken a personal possession from every victim, items stored in a wooden box under his bed, along with every newspaper report on the murders and a small tin filled with shiny pennies. I had a feeling if we exhumed the caskets, we would find fourpence in every grave.

It wasn’t going to be necessary. By the time we returned to the station, Pimblett had a confession. He told me that much, then advised me to leave any further investigation to Scotland Yard.

I felt oddly shut out, but I knew it wasn’t personal. For better or worse, I had changed history. The wisest thing to do was slip into the shadows while Pimblett and his men took the credit and accepted the adulation of a grateful public. A handful of people would know the truth. One of them, George Blanchard, would take it to the grave. At least he wouldn’t be spreading any more dirt about Ezra after his little escapade. It depressed me to think about the damage an ignorant and fearful society could do to a vulnerable human psyche. I suspected George’s days would end as violently as Sid’s were destined to. I didn’t hold out a lot of hope for Jem, either. Ezra, on the other hand….

I looked at him across Kathleen’s crisp, white tablecloth as he listened, smiling, to Derry’s exuberant toast. We had gotten home too late the night before for anything but a sleepy scolding from Kathleen as she came out to lock the door, and we’d left too early the next morning to tell anyone the news. But after Pimblett had sent us home, I related our capture of Sid to a spellbound group in the parlor and the excitement hadn’t died down since. In Ezra’s eyes, I saw a certain pleasure at having used his gift with such tangible success. The world was his oyster. Once he got over missing me, nothing could stop him.

As for getting over missing him, that was a stretch of time I didn’t look forward to—and when Hannah came in with a letter for Ezra, I had the sudden sense that I was in for that painful stretch sooner than I thought. With an apprehensive glance at me, Ezra took the letter and opened it. He didn’t read it aloud but he didn’t need to. Everyone at the table seemed to know.

“They’ve found it?” I asked.

Ezra nodded. “Corinna says we may come fetch it when we like.”

I felt torn between elation and a sudden onslaught of homesickness for the world—and the people—I’d be saying good-bye to. Derry set his glass down and cast bright eyes in my direction. “And when will you go, Morgan?”

Breaks that were clean and quick were always the best. “I think….” I looked at Ezra, but he was staring down at Corinna’s neat script with a distant look. Dragging this out would only hurt us. “Tomorrow morning we’ll go pick up the book. If you guys could meet us at the museum after lunch—”

“So soon?” Derry said in dismay.

As the others began to echo with their own protests, Kathleen stood up. “If your heart tells you it’s back at home you belong, then home you must go.” Clouded gray eyes met mine for a moment, and she tapped her fingers lightly on the tablecloth. “We’ll have our supper, gentlemen, if you please.”

And we did, in a quiet broken only by the sound of carriages passing in the street. I didn’t know if everyone else had lost their appetites, but I’d lost mine. Meeting Ezra’s eyes, I looked for some sign that he understood and was going to forgive me for needing to go back to my own life. If there was a wistful glint in his gaze, there was warmth too. The wished-for forgiveness was there and I found myself wishing that forgetting could come as easily.

After supper, I helped Kathleen with the clearing up and, though she was characteristically quiet, there was a distance in her manner that surprised me. When Hannah went out to the garden to shake out the tablecloth, I cornered Kathleen and asked her what was bothering her. To my surprise, she went red in the face and turned back to the sink to avoid my gaze.