Shadows Fall Away (25 page)

She was the Ripper’s last victim but there wasn’t much use following her since that event was weeks away. But what if what happened with Genie altered things? If they somehow knew each other enough to have issues.

I rubbed the sore spot on my head again. Damn, if Genie was in my room, where was I going to go? Maybe we could share the room, with me sleeping during the day and her at night. It wasn’t uncommon among the poor in Whitechapel to share the same room in shifts. It would be like college kids sharing a house or big apartment in my own time.

Who was I trying to fool? That wouldn’t work. Then the gossips would have “proof” of what they assumed was the reason she’d been kicked out of her house then she’d never be able to show them how wrong they were.

And I couldn’t impose on Ian again. Showing up now would set him off even if going to visit my new friend Sir Cedric was a perfectly legitimate reason to be gone.

So now I had no place to go, no clean clothes, no shaving kit, nothing but the grungy clothes on my back and the few coins in my pocket.

Okay, so it was time for Plan A subsection whatever.

Mark

“And who might this wretched thing be to grace us with his presence?” Mr. Gurov asked sarcastically when I knocked on his office door.

Breathing a defeated sigh, I forced myself to meet the Russian’s unwavering gaze. “Hey, Mr. Gurov.” I paused then forced myself to just spit the words out. “I know you don’t owe me one, but I need a favor. Can I stay here in exchange for more work? Whatever you need done here or with print jobs I’ll handle it. I’ll even do your laundry if I can use the leftover soapy water to get a bath.”

Gurov kept quiet and I waited for the big brush off. “Come back tomorrow then I will decide.”

Tomorrow was better than a no, but felt like a lifetime away. “Sure. Tomorrow. Thank you, Mr. Gurov.”

With my empty stomach rumbling to make its presence known, I stepped out the back door and fished the remaining coins out of my pocket. Wasn’t going to get much of a meal out of that. Then again one of the pubs might have some freebies for customers and about now another beer would be just as filling and maybe a lot more therapeutic.

Sure, go drink. It’s not as if that hasn’t played a part in your being here in the first place.

Stupid common sense. Never spoke up when I really wanted it to.

What I wouldn’t give for a nice cardboard box under the 40
^th
Street Bridge,
I thought miserably while looking for a secluded corner to call “home” for the night. Instinct pulled me toward the tea shop. I made my way around to the tidy back of the building. I sat near the fence and tried not to notice the warm lamplight coming from the vicinity of my former room reminding me Genie was inside. Beautiful, kindhearted Genie who just might let me crash on the floor if I begged pathetically enough.

Or Maybe Mrs. O’Connell would give a corner in her apartment or a spot in her storeroom or even a blanket in the cellar.

No. I wasn’t going to go crying to her like a kid to grandma. It wouldn’t kill me to stay the night here and in twenty-four hours I’d at least have a clean corner of the newspaper office floor to call my own.

Maybe. If Gurov wasn’t too pissed.

And if he is?

If Gurov was, then I’d worry about that tomorrow.

“Oh crap,” I muttered as I pulled my jacket closer. “I’m turning into Scarlett O’ freaking Hara.

***

Genie

Monday morning I had to bite my tongue more than once during the interview with the Infirmary matron who, not surprisingly, had learned of my fall from grace.

“Our nurses are fully trained and the pinnacle of respectability, Miss Trambley, as I’m sure you know from your mother’s good works here.”

I clutched at the handle of the reticule on my lap to keep from slapping the smug expression off the matron’s pinched face. “I assure you, Mrs. Weatherly, that I am a respectable woman and know as much about nursing patients as any of your current staff.

“While it’s true I’ve fallen upon a bit of a hard time, it is merely temporary.” I paused and sat straighter, meeting the older woman’s critical gaze with one of my own. “As you can see. I’m clean, fed, and have a decent roof over my head with Mrs. O’Connell who donates a number of things to this infirmary. You need me. I’m the daughter of a highly trained nurse and respected. From what I’ve heard from certain influential volunteers, the quality of care here leaves something to be desired at times.”

Matron Weatherly stiffened. She shuffled the papers on her desk and spoke without looking up. “I’m certain you would prefer a set schedule with day hours but all I have to offer is a fluctuating schedule, mostly in the evening and overnight.” She looked up, her expression bordering on the triumphant.

“Excellent.” I forced a smile and stood, taking some small measure of delight at the way the wind died out of Mrs. Weatherly’s pompous sails. “I shall start tonight if you have need of me.”

The matron turned back to her papers. “Yes. Yes, that would be fine. Please arrive no later than eight. Good day, Miss Trambley.”

I glanced at the watch pinned to my bodice. I had enough time to try and nap before reporting for duty. I had no doubt Mrs. Weatherly would assign me the worst tasks for the night but at least I had a job and the activity would occupy my thoughts and give me a chance to think of how I could make the best of the current situation. Perhaps in time I could go to my acquaintances at London Hospital and secure some type of private duty service.

Yes, I would definitely consider obtaining a respectable live-in position at some point. In fact, this might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. At least I would have a steady income and some real independence to call my own. Surely then my parents would see the error of their ways and be contrite as they should be.

***

Acquiring a steady income and independence of my own lost its charm within a week.

Surely the week had somehow transformed itself into a month, perhaps a year. I felt as though I were on an endless sojourn in a barren desert with no oasis in sight. I couldn’t understand why things seemed so blasted hard all of a sudden as I dragged myself back to the little flat on the morning of September fourteenth. I wanted more than anything to simply drop into bed after the long night at the infirmary, but I couldn’t.

I needed to get to Annie Chapman’s burial service at Manor Park Cemetery before nine. Though it was supposed to be a private affair so as not to draw the public’s attention, the undertaker, Mr. Hawes, had sent a note round to me as he’d been one of the kind few to support my efforts in befriending and aiding the women of Whitechapel.

Hurrying as quickly as my tired bones would allow, I washed up and donned a clean dress then grabbed a scone I’d had left from yesterday and headed back out.

Clutching my shawl tighter, I told myself it was only imagination making the sky seem more somber, the air chillier, the atmosphere of the cemetery more oppressive than it otherwise might have been. Not wanting to intrude, I lingered a short distance away from Annie’s few mourners as the words were spoken over the simple black draped, elm coffin before it was lowered into the ground.

I made my way forward through the maze of headstones once the mourners drifted away. And awhile I watched the last of the dirt being shoveled into the hole, movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I looked to another group assembling for a burial a short distance away. Odd, but for a moment I thought one of the women in that family was Mother. That was ludicrous, of course. Unless the old harpy followed me, wanting some “evidence” to throw in my face at some future point about how she’d been right and I was indeed a loose woman who deserved to be put to the curb like a heap of trash.

“Hey, girl.”

I jumped and spun to the left so quickly I nearly got tangled up in my skirts. But no, it was no trick of my tired mind. It was indeed Mark Stewart speaking to me and it was certainly his strong hands that gripping my shoulders to keep me upright.

“You look like sh—crud. You okay?”

I pulled away, telling myself I did not like the feel of those strong hands supporting me. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be long gone.”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck then stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Things in my life have a way of not going exactly as planned.”

With a soft sigh, I pulled my shawl around my shoulders once more. “I can sympathize with that, Mr. Stewart.” The silence between was long and filled with tension but Mark soon broke it by nervously clearing his throat.

“If you’re headed back to Whitechapel, I’ll head back with you if it’s okay.”

I gave my head a tilt. “What you do is of no concern to me, Mr. Stewart.”

“Whatever,” Mark mumbled as I brushed past him and headed for the station. I found an open seat in the crowded car and Mark stood before me. “You look tired. You not feeling well?”

“I
am
tired. I worked at the infirmary all night,” I informed him in a clipped tone then lowered my gaze back to my hands folded upon my lap.

I tried not to stare at Mark, but I couldn’t contain the urge to give him a few quick glances on the ride back to Whitechapel. I’d done my best to put him out of my mind but here he was, his presence every bit as commanding—and enticing—as before.

He was so intense as he stared at the wall of the Underground car. What was he thinking? I didn’t imagine they were entirely pleasant thoughts gauging from the firm set of his jaw and the way his mouth thinned to a line. I closed my eyes as an image of kissing tried to force itself into my brain. No, that would not do. I had far more important things to worry about, the preeminent one being my own survival.

The trip felt tedious in its length, though it had never felt that way before. And when we pulled into the station, it was both a relief and comfort to have it end. I glanced over when Mark cleared his throat while we exited the car and made our way through the people on the platform. “Yes?”

He cleared his throat again, stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. “The room. At Mrs. O’Connell’s—”

My heart thudded. “You want it back?”

“No,” he said quickly if unenthusiastically. “I just wanted to let you know it’s okay if you keep it. It’s good for you. It’s a clean, safe place and Mrs. O’Connell will let you come and go as you please.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Just saying.”

I gave him a long look and maneuvered to an unoccupied corner. “Where are you staying?”

He shrugged. “Around, you know. It’s not important.”

“I see.” I gripped the straps of my reticule. “I don’t imagine you lack for comfort and companionship.”

“Hey—”

“Good day, Mr. Stewart. I need to rest a bit before my shift this evening.”

“Wait up,” he called.

He’d called out rather halfheartedly, I thought. And when he went silent and failed to follow I knew I had all the answer I needed.

***

Mark

I got close enough to grab the back of Genie’s skirt to slow her down but decided against it. What the hell was wrong with her parents, throwing a girl out after a comfortable life and giving her no choice but to live in a total shit-hole of a neighborhood?

Mrs. O’Connell’s place was clean and safe enough but still, Genie wasn’t cut out for such a life no matter how tough she thought she was. And with the Ripper still on the loose she was a potential target if my falling back in time put anything out of whack in terms of the victims.

I’d thought about that a lot lately—if this time shift had screwed things in terms of the crimes. And lately, as I did mindless tasks at the docks during the morning and Gurov’s grunge work after, I’d wondered if catching this sick bastard would really send me home or just screw up things more.

And all the while I knew I had to try and catch him. If I didn’t at least try I’d be betraying the way my dad and uncle put their lives on the line every day they went to work. And as much as I hated their lectures and disapproval, I owed them that much.

So I watched Genie Trambley go her own way then went mine. It was better I not get any more involved with her than necessary. I needed my space to track the Ripper, to use each spare minute scoping out the area to find the most likely suspect.

I had a few weeks before the next murder. Maybe I’d even pick up a bit of extra work at the docks and keep my eyes and ears open to see if a merchant seaman might not be the guilty party. There was always work to be had, the pay was fairly decent, and I managed to save a bit. Maybe I’d treat myself. Maybe look up Madam Z and buy myself a gift for all the hard work I’d been doing. The way Mom sometimes did when she got a nice royalty bonus she hadn’t expected. Of course, I could save up for a better place to crash.

Nah. The cot at Gurov’s was free. I didn’t have any noisy neighbors or have to share the privy. A gift to myself was in order. Too bad it couldn’t be a video game or DVD or a slew of mp3s.

I bought a guitar. Surprised the crap out of me to see it sitting there at Madam Z’s booth but as soon as she saw me, she pointed to it and smiled. I was eight years old again and gravitating to it the way I had to the unmistakable package wrapped in SpongeBob paper that waited for me under the Christmas tree. That had been a guitar, too.

This was an American guitar no less, from Martin. It sat there in it’s wooden “coffin case,” its red lining just waiting for me. It was smaller than the modern one I’d had for years and dragged to Aunt Agatha’s but it was a real guitar. A piece of home. A piece of my old life and I was going to have it even if it took every penny in my pocket, even if that meant I had to beg crumbs from Mrs. O’Connell to keep from starving.

For the first time since I’d landed in this bizarro wonderland I was happy, and I handed over the cash.