Shadows Fall Away (18 page)

Mother calmly replaced the toast on her plate, wiped her mouth, then dropped the napkin onto the table before rising with great dignity, turning to Father and saying softly, “Your youngest daughter is no better than a conniving, filthy whore. I want her out of this house immediately.”

***

Mark

Ian leaned over his desk and glared at me. “And just where were you at the time of the murder?”

“I must have been somewhere near the other end of Bucks Row,” I admitted. Frustration spilled out and I hit the edge of the chair with my fist. “If I’d been even halfway down the street I might have heard something or been able to do something.”

Ian looked at me suspiciously. “And just why were you in that area at all?” Ian demanded. “Not your usual haunt, is it?”

“I was coming back from the big fire down by the dry docks. It was quite a sight,” I said, believing the lie to make it convincing.

There was no denying Ian was my dad’s ancestor because he pulled the same thing Dad did when I got into trouble. He crossed his arms, leaned back against the desk, and gave me the evil cop eye, waiting for me confess.

A lot of times it worked, too but this time I hadn’t done anything wrong. “I guess I was hoping I’d run into Genie—Miss Trambley—since I heard she was at the hospital with her mother.”

Ian laughed. “Ah, the most sinister of motives that is.” He looked at the bruise over my eye, the one that had brought me to the attention of Sergeant Kirby who’d hauled me in for questioning after the body had been found. “And what did you do to earn yourself that?”

I smirked. “Obviously I found her and tried to suggest she stay off the streets at night because it isn’t safe, especially for someone like her.”

Ian laughed right out loud. “I’ve said the same often enough, but at least she didn’t feel the need to come to blows with me.”

I shook my head. “She is the most…” I paused, searching for a word.

“Stubborn? Wrong-headed? Annoying? Irritating?” Ian offered.

“Interesting girl I’ve ever met.” Damn. The evil cop eye confession tactic worked every time.

Ian gave me a critical look. “You find that willfulness attractive in her, lad?”

My lips twitched. “Yeah, I find it attractive. I just wish she’d listen to reason.”

“She needs a stern husband to give her a home and handful of children to occupy her time.”

Nope. Wasn’t going to go there. “I don’t see why she’d be forced to give up her nursing. She’s good with people. It would be a shame to waste her talents.”

“A married woman nursing? Preposterous. Having a wife wasting her efforts on employment is pure foolishness for all but the lower classes.”

Yeah, well so much for the old DNA making it down to Dad intact.

I wandered down Leman Street to think. The docks were only a few blocks down and I needed a change of scene.

The Ripper had claimed his second victim, a murder I might have stopped if only I’d paid more attention at the seminar and the walking tour. Except for the Kelly murder that inspired a fairly long scene in my mom’s book, I didn’t know enough to pinpoint the time or exact locations of the other murders. Staking out Kelly’s place would be my last chance to solve the crime and get home, but her murder was a long way off.

And I was still worried any unofficial investigating might disrupt the Ripper’s pattern. And if the Ripper deviated from the pattern, I’d have no chance at all of catching him and getting back to my own time.

I didn’t even want to go into the
Butterfly Effect
route and think, what if this one event did not happen as the history books said and what might it do to the world as I knew it?

What I had to do was concentrate on finding Annie Chapman whose murder was only a week away. Still, I knew from observing my dad and even my mom when she wrote that sometimes you could get too close to a problem to see the best way to fix it.

I needed a distraction, something that might let my subconscious work on the issue.

So I headed to the docks and the first thing that struck me was the stench of the water mixed with the smell of hot tar. But after the worst of that wore off I was caught up in the sight of tall masts and rigging that dominated the sky like the centerpiece in some huge old museum painting.

In the distance off to the right, the tops of the Tower of London poked up. Off to the left I saw wisps of smoke still coming from the Shadwell Drydock fire the night before. But in between were the ships.

I wandered along, dodging sweaty guys shifting cargo into or out of the vessels. It was a fascinating sight. Mom had dragged us to Mystic Seaport one summer but I’d never seen a real working sailing ship before and here were a bunch of them, jostling for space in the river and along the wharves.

And the cargo wasn’t boxed up in big metal containers. There were bags and crates and barrels of every description being slung off the ships by block and tackle then manhandled into stacks or onto handcarts or wagons.

I walked an obstacle course, dodging men and carts and decided to find someplace to sit while I thought. A short piling that seemed relatively safe from the commotion on the docks seemed like a good place so I settled down.

I tried to think back to the conference and did my best to remember the prime suspects they’d flashed on the big flat screen in one of the panels. All I remembered were the High Society types who’d been pretty much cleared—the Queen’s grandson, her old doctor, a tutor, and a couple others.

I remembered the profiler at the Ripper conference said it had to be a Whitechapel resident. While I had no clue to point otherwise I wondered if it might be a type of person that hadn’t been brought up

Maybe a soldier, someone with post-traumatic stress who had some real out of it moments and took the prostitutes for an enemy? Perhaps one who’d been held captive and tortured? Weren’t there a ton of British soldiers in India? Had any of them been taken hostage for any reason? Maybe Africa? I really wished I’d paid better attention to Mom’s nineteenth century research info.

She’d know what conflicts might have sent someone over the edge. That would at least help to narrow possible suspects down.

But what if the killer was a cop? I didn’t think anyone ever tossed that idea out. If the Ripper was an off-duty cop, he would be nearly impossible for the police to catch. Like Ian had with the thought of a woman killer, the regular cops would never believe one of their own could be a serial killer.

And if it was an on-duty cop then, unless I could actually catch him in the act, the guilty man could claim he’d stumbled on the body and the knife and be totally believed. These guys had no clue about contaminating crime scenes and evidence. No one would think twice about a cop who said he’d picked up the bloody knife to turn it in.

I looked around the busy docks and sighed. There was no one I to toss ideas around with the way Dad did to help Mom plot her mysteries.

Missing my parents hit hard and deep. I’d resented them. Their groundings, lectures, and talks about “not living up to potential.” I couldn’t even count how many times I’d silently chanted for them to go away and leave me alone. Well I’d gotten that wish. Now I really understood what “be careful what you wish for, you might just get it” meant. Damn.

Turning emo wasn’t going to get me anywhere and neither was sitting here all day. I got up and continued my self-guided tour of the docks.

“Ahoy! Mark Stewart!” someone shouted.

I whirled around, trying to locate the speaker.

The shout came again and, this time, I realized it came from above. Craning my neck I saw a figure waving to from the rigging of one of the ships. It had to be one of the American sailors I’d met that time in the pub.

I waved back. “How’s it going?”

“Give me a minute,” he called down. “I’m off watch. I’ll buy you a beer.”

I wasn’t particularly in the mood for a beer at two o’clock in the afternoon, nor for the company of any of the seamen I’d met, but I didn’t see any way to avoid it.

“Sure thing.” I watched and waited as he swung himself from his position and slid hand-over-hand rapidly to the deck. Now, what was his name? Tom, Todd, Tim. Tim. Ferguson, that was it, from Boston. You’d think I’d remember a guy like him with flaming red hair and handlebar moustache.

“Just taking in the sights,” Tim said as he came down the gangway to the dock. “Great view from up there, you can see half the town.”

I stood and shook his hand.

Tim gazed up at the rigging again. “You’d think I’d have had enough of hanging off the mast, being up there half the night watching the fire to see if it was headed our way. Still, something about sightseeing from the rigging. Almost feel like a bird looking down sometimes.”

I nodded and with no small talk to toss out I looked at the ship’s hull, noticing, for the first time, the name in bright, new, gold lettering on her bow.

Agathos.

“Funny name for a ship.” I indicated with a nod of my head. It was like Agatha was haunting me across time. When Tim scowled and crossed himself, I was afraid the crazy thought wasn’t that far off.

“Nothing funny about it. Means ‘good’ in Greek or something but you’ll never prove it by me. New owners changed her original name before we sailed and that’s a curse, as any sailor’ll tell you. Half the crew jumped ship before we left Philadelphia and we barely made our complement.”

***

Genie

In utter disbelief, I stood in the cramped street and watched my family’s carriage pull away. I was dreaming. Surely I’d awaken at any moment and realize the entire morning had been nothing more than a nightmare.

Two small, dirty children ran past, jostling me and bringing the reality home. This was no dream. It was all too real.

Father had truly acceded to Mother’s insane demands without so much as a “But dear—” He’d had Sarah pack up my belongings, load them into the carriage. Then, with barely a nod, he’d instructed Harry to bring me here to a nurse’s boarding house in Whitechapel.

I turned and looked at the sooty brick façade and wanted to cry.
This
was now my home. I’d been cast out simply for speaking my mind one time too many.

And I hadn’t even said anything particularly scandalous this morning.

This was what Father had called a “respectable” boarding house where the doors were locked long before midnight. He’d said he’d spoken to the landlady at the hospital now and again. She’d made it abundantly clear that she ran a decent, wholesome house and if any girl was even a minute late returning, she wouldn’t be allowed in.

How neatly they had arranged it all. It was as if my parents had planned for it months ago. I was now effectively silenced and cut off from everyone and everything. Family friends would undoubtedly be told I was on an extended holiday on the Continent or some such plausible lie. It wasn’t as if any of them would be down here to run across me.

What was worse, I was penniless except for the stipend Father might choose to dole out. He’d sent a messenger around even before I’d left the house and paid my lodgings here for a month, preventing me from changing to some place where I could come and go as I pleased. He’d thoroughly prevented me from seeing and treating the women who were out much later than midnight.

It was so unfair.

And it was all Mark Stewart’s fault.

If it hadn’t been for his outrageous behavior at the fundraiser, I’d still be in my own home where I belonged.

He had no doubt done it on purpose. He’d been coy and teasing and intriguing, had roused my interested in him, led me on, made me think he supported my ideas and causes. He’d flirted outrageously. I’d fallen for it.

Only now did I realize how clever he’d been, starting with his supposed inability to properly shave. Seeming to be helpless and admitting a weakness to me, that had been the clever part. Making me get close to him, letting me feel the muscles in his shoulders and back as I leaned against him to show him how to shave. And his insistence on taking off his shirt! That should have been a clear warning but I so foolishly ignored it, gullibly believing the little lies he’d told, believing in his innocence.

Perfectly respectable he’d been, yet perfectly outrageous with those little comments he could pretend were just his American nature.

He’d played me the way a musician plays an instrument. I’d been the perfect fool, the silly female taken in by the sharpie. How many other females had fallen for his sly charm? That might be the real reason he’d had to leave America; he’d seduced the daughter of some rich or powerful man.

“Well, Mark Stewart,” I muttered as I carried my bag inside. “We shall see just how clever you really are. We shall indeed!”

***

I gave Inspector Fraser my sweetest smile. “I do appreciate you seeing me, Inspector. I know how very busy you are.”

He nodded in acknowledgment, seating himself slowly, as if expecting me to pull an asp from my reticule.

“I wondered, since I’ve been running into your nephew so often, whether there’s been any word on his missing aunt or whomever she is to him.”

Inspector Fraser stroked his mustache and considered the question. “No, but if sh’s visiting friends in the countryside, it might be weeks before she sends for him and finds him missing.”

I nodded making sure to purse my lips enough to indicate concern. “I had thought perhaps that the passenger line offices or port authorities might have had a record of him and the ship he arrived on. Or perhaps the hotels…”

“If I didn’t have so many serious pressing police matters to attend to, I might send someone ‘round to check up on that. But, at the moment, I frankly welcome young Mark’s insights, as far-fetched as some of them may seem. In fact, I’m quite glad the lad appeared when he did.”

I stared at my folded hands for a moment as if I was unsure of what to say next. “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time.” I stood quickly. “Please don’t get up. I can see myself out.”

I couldn’t help but tremble as I walked out of the Leman Street police station. I suppose I might be considered petty but at the boardinghouse my thoughts had spun out of control. Mark Stewart was so unlike any proper young man I’d ever met. His odd behavior the night before had been downright frightening and I’d felt I had no choice but to plant a seed of doubt in Inspector Fraser’s mind.