Shadows Fall Away (8 page)

The sun tried to break through the dingy clouds while the sounds of people talking and even laughing lifted my mood and made me believe, if only for the minute, that things would work out.

At least until I felt a hand in my pocket.

***

Genie

Fighting the fatigue that had plagued me most of the morning, I approached a small knot of women some of whom I’d seen last night. “Please stay off the streets for a few days until the murderer of the woman in George Yard is found.”

Annie Chapman looked at me with disdain. “Ooooh,” she cooed. “What a lovely idea. We’ll just sit in our parlors in front of the fire sippin’ tea an’ eatin’ scones wiv clotted cream an’ jam. An’ the maid’ll bring us our doss money.”

The other women laughed derisively, each one adding another detail that made the picture even more ludicrous.

“... an’, o’ course, old Queen Vic ‘erself’ll fluff the comforter afore we turn in!”

I ground my teeth to keep my frustration in check. Shouting at them wouldn’t help the situation. It would only drive them further away from listening to reason. Though I loathed to admit it, I couldn’t deny that Annie was partly right. They had no other way to make money, no other place to stay than a common doss house. Those that could, sold matches and trinkets or got the rare job but it wasn’t enough especially when they drank away what little they made before night fell.

“At least stay to the main streets,” I pleaded. “Keep yourselves safe.” Watching them roll their eyes or nod as if indulging a child was more than frustrating. I wanted to do something, to help, but there was almost nothing I
could
do except tend their obvious ailments and urge them to go the quarter mile down Whitechapel Road to the London Hospital to seek further treatment.

Annie stopped laughing first and touched my arm in a gesture of reconciliation. “Don’t take no offense, dearie. We knows ya means well.”

My frustration boiled deep inside me. Being condescended to by whores, of all people, was infuriating. No one took me seriously. No one. Just because I was “only eighteen.”

With a muttered “fine.” I stormed off, not caring where I was going. First that arrogant American this morning, laughing at me, then sternly telling me to stay away from Whitechapel as if he had some right to direct my comings and goings. Now Annie and the others mocked me. Again.

I would show them. I would show them all. All I needed was some time to think, to plan, to come up with a solution that could make a difference in their lives, something that would at least convince them to get decent medical attention.

I plunged into the open-air market before I realized it and stopped, shocked. Everything seemed so normal, so commonplace, as if there had not been a horrible murder the night before, as if the killer didn’t still stalk these streets. He could even be here, in the market.

The very thought made my skin crawl and I spun quickly around, scanning the crowd for anyone suspicious but found one hauntingly familiar.

I took a step to approach but stopped when he grabbed a girl of no more than twelve, spun her around, and pushed her down.

***

Mark

I instinctively grabbed, spun, and pushed the thief to the ground, seconds before a shrill voice called out, “Mr. Stewart!”

Keeping the thief pinned, I looked for the speaker. Genie Trambley charged toward me with a fire in her eyes and her umbrella striking the ground angrily with each step.

Genie shoved me with an angry scowl and helped the thief to his feet, or rather,
her
feet.

My pickpocket was a girl, ragged and filthy, who stood glaring at me like I was the bad guy. Yeah, I was rough. I didn’t realize it was a girl just someone trying to rip me off.

Genie fussed over the girl, making sure she was uninjured before turning back to me. Seeing her chance, the pickpocket looked for escape. I tried to grab her but Genie inserted herself between us and the girl took off.

“What kind of a man are you, Mr. Stewart? Attacking young girls in broad daylight!” Genie punctuated her verbal assault with the end of her umbrella, driving it into my chest with each exclamation. “What vile perversions did you have in mind?”

I wrenched the umbrella out of her hands. “She’s a little thief!”

“Was it absolutely necessary to throw her on her face?” Genie demanded, trying to snatch back her umbrella. “Have you such an utter contempt for the female gender, sir? You seem to think you can tell them when to come and when to go and what to do and what not to do and treat them however you want as if you were ordained by the Almighty Himself!”

“What?” I stared. She kept giving me the evil eye. “You don’t have a freakin’ clue. If you could get past your own stupid prejudices you might be able to see that!”

“My what?” Genie gasped.

“You’re so convinced men are bad, no matter what I do, you’ll see it in your own twisted little way as proof of whatever it is you want to believe.” I waved the handle of the umbrella in her face, but stopped short of actually touching her. She backed up, knocking into people who jostled her back to me.

“I didn’t know it was a girl and I sure wouldn’t have been as rough with her if I had—but I might still have taken her down because she’s a thief! But that doesn’t matter to you because you know it all and are always right, aren’t you?” I shoved her umbrella back into her hands. “Here, take your umbrella and your attitude and leave me alone!”

I stormed off, calling her a few choice names in my head until it hit me.

I was having dinner at her house tonight. Genie’s father had invited me this morning. And there was no way out of it because I had to get my own clothes and give these ones back.

Mark

I stared at the shining brass knob of the hand crank doorbell. What would I do if Genie Trambley opened the door? Would she slam it in my face? Why did I even care, beyond getting my stuff back? Oh well, no sense putting it off.

I turned the knob and waited. I held my breath when I heard the door latch click inside but relaxed when the maid, Sarah, appeared on the other side.

“Hello again, Mr. Stewart. Do come in. The doctor is waiting for you in the surgery. This way, please.”

The exam was a pretty quick deal with a check of my heart, breathing, and eyes. And lots of questions about my memory. I B.S.’d my way through, was soon pronounced “fit of body,” and invited to clean up and change clothes before dinner.

I soaked in a deep claw-footed tub till Sarah tapped timidly on the door to tell me my suit was in the guestroom and that I’d better get ready.

I pulled the stopper and let the water drain out, trying to postpone the thing I’d been avoiding, well, avoiding more than running into Genie Trambley. Shaving. With a big sharp straight razor.

I remembered what happened when Mom sucked Dad into using one of these so she could write about it. It hadn’t been pretty, but it was fortunate she was an ER nurse. I didn’t want to think about what sort of bribes Mom used to make Dad give it another go once the stitches came out, but it had definitely gone smoother with only a little nick—well, three. The third time, though. That had gone really well and Dad hadn’t shed any blood, except for his toe when the razor fell off the edge of the sink when he was drying his face.

I picked up the razor. I could do this. I put the razor to my neck. And I froze when I realized I was missing of a pretty important component. The whole shaving soap, cup, and brush thing. This part I knew I could handle. I closed the razor so I wouldn’t gash my foot, then worked up a nice lather and swirled it on my cheeks and neck. And left the razor where it was.

Maybe I’d just grow my beard in. Or not. I hadn’t exactly inherited all of Dad’s manly genes. The hair on my cheeks grew in splotchy and looked like hell if I let it go too long. And this soapy crud was starting to get itchy. I put the razor to my neck again then eased it back away because my hand shook.

I wondered if I could go down and grab a shot of that brandy, but I didn’t want to get busted as a sneak and a drunk. I’d gotten accused enough of that back home. A lot of times when I hadn’t even done it. As much as I hated to admit it, my parents were right; my friends were mostly losers. They did stupid shit and made it look like I was at fault a lot more than I actually was.

I was going to have a hard enough time keeping myself together, and getting hammered would only make it harder. Things I took for granted just didn’t exist anymore. Like Starbucks. And shower curtains. And cell phones. And the Net. I hoped I’d learn to survive back here in the dark ages and learn to keep my mouth under control. Hopefully, the weird food and air wouldn’t give me some disease that could only be cured by the antibiotics that hadn’t been invented yet.

And I really hoped I wouldn’t kill myself shaving.

I shook the tension out of my arm and shoulders, took a deep breath, and put the razor to my neck again.

Here we go. Piece of cake.

I pulled the razor back. Maybe I needed to start somewhere less lethal. Sideburns might be safe.

I carefully positioned the razor against my cheek, checked the angle, took a deep breath, and gashed the hell out of myself.

“Shit!”

My brain didn’t quite register a little knock on the door until the door slid open and Genie Trambley peeked in.

“My word, are you all right?” She hurried forward. She took the towel from me and looked at my wound. “However did you do that? Certainly not shaving?”

“Not shaving is certainly how I did it!” I shot back. I snatched the towel away and pressed it back against my cheek.

“Then do carry on, Mr. Stewart. And try not to bleed too profusely on the carpet.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I’m just mad at myself. I shouldn’t take it out on you.”

Genie’s attention started to drift down to the towel wrapped around my waist and I held my breath, begged my body not to embarrass me.

Her gaze snapped back up and she reached out. “Please let me look at the cut.”

I pulled the little towel back a few inches and she leaned in. She cleared her throat. “It seems to be slowing but it’s a bit much for a styptic pencil. Just keep pressure on it with the towel a few moments more.”

She took a long time staring into my eyes but stepped back and adjusted the small silver watch pinned to the front of her gray dress.

“I guess I should have found a barber or something to get a shave,” I said, mostly to fill the weird silence. “You think there are any in the neighborhood, open now?”

“No. But I shall help you.” Genie picked up a fresh towel and wiped the drying soap from my face.

I stepped back.

She gave me a questioning look. “Whatever is the matter, Mr. Stewart?”

I looked at the razor in her hand. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but somehow I don’t think you have much experience in the area of shaving, and that blade is sharp.”

Her back ramrod straight, she gave me a pissy look. “I assure you, Mr. Stewart, that I am quite skilled with a razor. I’ve assisted many an invalid at the London Hospital and not a one of them has ever succumbed as a result of my use of a straight razor.”

I considered asking for references but since she had the razor, I decided not to. And besides, there was a trained doctor downstairs, right? “If you’re willing to shave me, I’d appreciate it.”

She worked up the lather again. “If you sit on the tub, it will be much easier. You’re too tall.”

I grinned at her. “Maybe you’re too short.”

She tried not to smile, but I saw the cracks in her crusty exterior.

“Need I remind you, Mr. Stewart, which one of us shall be brandishing the razor?”

“Well played, Miss Trambley. Well played.”

She gave me a cute grin. “But of course.”

She was quick and good and I’d have been tempted to give her a tip if I’d had my pants on. I was really starting to wish I had my pants on. “Could you hand me the robe, dressing gown, whatever?”

She did, gave a puzzled look, then excused herself.

I went to the guestroom to get dressed. While I fumbled trying to get the stupid cravat/necktie thing straight, I had to admit that Genie Trambley did have a nice touch with the razor and a decent sense of humor. I liked that. Maybe this dinner with her family wouldn’t be so awful after all.

Once I was satisfied I looked “presentable,” I headed downstairs. Genie waited and insisted I step into her father’s treatment room so she could see to the cut I’d made on my face from the razor.

She clucked her tongue in an annoying yet kind of cute way while she dabbed some kind of salve on the wound on my face. “You’re quite heavy-handed with a razor, aren’t you? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d never shaved yourself before.”

Think boy, think.
“I usually go to the old barber near my house and let him do it. It gets the day off to a good start.”

“Well, no matter.” Genie wiped her hands on a small cotton towel. She looked at the little watch pinned to the front of her dress. “I believe we’ve delayed dinner long enough. Shall we go?”

Dr. Trambley had been called away so they had me sit in the “Master’s” chair that seemed more like the defendant’s chair about a minute after I took my seat.

It was like being on trial with three bitchy Judge Craigs. The older Trambley women’s eyes bored into me, watching every move, flashing silent signals back and forth about the way I held my fork, cut my food. I think they even found fault with the way I sat. They probably thought I didn’t notice it but when you hung around the type of people I’d been hanging with you learned to keep your eyes open.

It was actually worse than being on trial. At least there I had a lawyer ready to plead my case. Here I was on my own and it was easy to see Mrs. Trambley and the older daughter, Phoebe, would be Hanging Judges if they were behind the bench.

“I appreciate everything you’ve all done for me,” I said, before dipping a dinner roll in the gravy at the edge of the plate. Big mistake. The signals flashed between mother and daughter again.