A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7) (16 page)

Simon shook his hand and thanked him.

Vale came over to Elizabeth. “I hope we can do this again soon.”

“I’m sure we will,” Elizabeth said.

Graham tipped his hat, and he and Vale wound their way out of the auditorium.

“What was that all about?” Elizabeth asked as she watched them go.

“Progress, I hope. Progress.”

V
ICTOR
ROLLED
ONTO
HIS
side and his arm fell against the empty bed. He groaned as he came awake. Was she up again checking on Juliette? The fever was low. She was such a worrier.

He opened his eyes and his breath caught.

The room was dark and foreign. He sat up in bed, his heart beating faster now, his mind fully awake. Where was she?

Where was
he
?

“Emilie?”

There was no answer.
 

He pushed aside the covers, and they felt wrong in his hand. Rough and damp.
 

“Emelie!” he said again, his voice rising with the fear that started to clutch his heart.

He bumped into a small chair and it fell to the floor. Where
was
he? This was not their home. He strode over to the doorway, his eyes now adjusted to the dark and he pulled it open—a dimly lit hallway and stairs. What was going on here?

He turned back into the room and heard a noise outside his window. He hurried to it and saw two men driving a horse-drawn cart down a cobblestone street. His hands gripped the frame and he tried to think. He’d been home. Juliette was…

Juliette.

He squeezed his eyes shut as she slipped away and became only memory.

Clenching his jaw against the emotion that made him tremble, he took in a deep breath. He was in London. 1888 London, for the Council. Emilie and Juliette were gone.

Victor straightened and opened his eyes to see the dull, dingy window and the world outside. It was another event, but this one had cut straight to his heart. It was like losing them again.

He walked back over to the bed and sat down heavily, the mattress giving under his weight. For the others, losing themselves into the past was horrible, frightening, but for him, it was the opposite. The cruelty lay in coming back.
 

It had been all at once foreign and familiar. The feeling of being whole, of being happy. He’d wasted so much time with them. If only he’d known what was to come.

He laughed at his own foolishness. His past, although it lingered in him, was gone. They were gone. And he was just a shadow.

He pulled a hand down over his face and scrubbed his chin and then looked around the sad little room. Run down, dirty, dark. It suited him now. This was his life. It took darkness to fight darkness, and he would do so until he had no breath. Maybe that would be today.

He looked toward the soot-stained window and saw the faintest hint of light. He sat there until dawn, but the sun did not come up. Rain came instead and the dull gray night became a dull gray day.

~~~

Victor walked among the crowd that lined Old Montague Street early Thursday morning. Rain showers had come and gone and come again, leaving the streets thick with sludge. It was just before eight in the morning and despite their hangovers and their jobs, nearly everyone in the neighborhood showed for the spectacle of Mary Ann Nichols’ funeral procession.

Most funerals in Whitechapel were simple affairs. Death was a common occurrence and no money was wasted that could be spent on the living. Word had gotten out that Nichols’ father and estranged husband were footing the bill for a not-quite lavish, but respectable, funeral. And so the people who knew her, ignored her, and had never heard of her all lined the streets for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary, something to talk about that night in the pub while they wondered when or if the murderer would strike again.

The costermongers and peddlers were out, working the crowd, selling apples, roasted nuts, ham sandwiches, coffee and ginger beer. It wasn’t quite the Queen’s Jubilee, but where there was a crowd, there was a penny to be made.

The people milled about waiting and Victor scanned the crowd. He’d already come to know dozens of the faces. He saw several of the women from the pubs he’d frequented, including several of Ripper’s next victims who stood huddled together in the rain, oblivious to what awaited them. The only thing worse than knowing he could do nothing to stop it, was knowing what he would have to do when the time came.

Elizabeth Stride and Annie Chapman shared some secret between them and laughed. Marie appeared and ducked under the cover of a tarp that partially sheltered a store front. He felt the urge well inside him to act, but he was just an observer, he reminded himself. Stand and watch.

A man dashed across the street and slipped in muck, falling face first into the mire. The crowd laughed, delighted, as he slipped again and wiped the mud from his face.

Near the corner, leaning against a lamppost, was John Pizer. He’d left his leather apron at home this time, and he struggled to light a pipe in the drizzle.

Victor recognized a few other men from the pubs, and one he’d only seen old photos of, George Lusk. He took off his black bowler hat and shook the rain off while he patiently waited with the others. Victor knew that Lusk would soon form the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee when the police efforts fell flat. He’d also be the unlucky recipient of a piece of bloody kidney in the mail courtesy of Jack the Ripper. With it would be a note explaining that he only sent half because he’d fried and eaten the other. Although many believed it to be a poor joke, a taunt sent by someone else, it was another part of the Ripper case that added to the legend. But Victor was not here to find a legend. He was here to find a man. And that man was somewhere near.

Under the sanctuary of a large black umbrella stood Vale and Graham. Well dressed and out of place among the rest who’d come to watch. It was the first time he’d seen them here. He studied her face, but there was little resemblance to the she-devil he’d captured. She was, he supposed, a beautiful woman, but hard, even in youth.

Next to her, Charles Graham looked exactly like the photograph Travers had shown him. Average looking, average height, average in every way except intellectually—the perfect person to blend into a crowd in any time. Graham keenly studied the people around him, probably doing exactly what Victor was, wondering who among them was their man.

A murmur from the east end of the street pulled Victor’s attention away. It grew louder and he could just make out a driver and wagon coming near. A hush fell over the crowd.

Black horses with black plumes led the way. The ostrich feathers were wet and stuck up like matted sticks from the horses’ bridles. The driver, dressed in fine black clothes, soaked to the bone, kept his eyes forward and his pace measured as he drove the cart-like hearse past. On the sled behind it, rested a polished elm casket, glistening in the rain. It was followed by two black mourning coaches. Inside them, Victor could just make out the silhouettes of three men in black top hats, undoubtedly her family—father, husband and son.

The small procession passed by in silence; the only sound the horses’ hooves, the wooden wheels against the cobblestone street and the tapping sound of the rain as it beat down on the brim of his cap.

Once the carriages were past, the crowd livened again, and began to chatter and disperse. Victor waited and watched. Ignorant of what was to come, the people of Whitechapel went on with their lives, not knowing how much would change in just two days at the sharp end of a knife.

~~~

London Hospital always made Elizabeth think of Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man. He’d been paraded as a spectacle in penny gaff entertainment, a low-brow theater show, in a shop across the street before eventually being rescued from a life of humiliation by a kind doctor. After that, he lived the rest of his days in one of the rooms of London Hospital. He was in there somewhere, right now. She frowned and scanned the windows of the grand stone and brick facade as their cab slowed to a stop.

“I’m sure a visit can be arranged,” Simon said, clearly knowing where her thoughts were.
 

She shook her head. “I feel silly. I know he’d probably welcome a visitor, but I feel like I’d be intruding.”

Simon didn’t argue with her, but merely helped her down from the carriage to the street. She pulled her up her skirt to avoid a puddle of sludge.
 

“If you change your mind,” was all he said. He would help her if she wanted it and leave it alone if she preferred that. She loved him for that.

She smiled up at him and wound her arm through his. “I’ll think about it.”

But she didn’t, her mind shifted to Dr. Blackwood. She’d spent some time last night preparing what she thought would be the sort of questions a reporter would ask, although she had the feeling she wouldn’t have to do much talking when the time came. If she could get the doctor started, talking about himself wouldn’t be a problem. Stopping him might.

The hospital was massive and impressive. They got directions to the doctor’s office and made their way to the right wing. They’d just turned the last corner when they heard Dr. Blackwood’s voice, raised in anger.

“I told you not to come here,” the doctor said. “Roderick!”

A woman’s voice came next, her East End accent clear. “You fink you can do what you like, don’t ye? Doctor?” The last word was layered with contempt.

“Get out!”
 

There was a short scuffle of feet and an indignant cry of, “Get your ‘ands off me!” and then the woman was bodily escorted from the doctor’s office and out into the hall by a short, muscular man.
 

He twisted her arm behind her back as she struggled. “That’s enough, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth started to protest when Simon beat her to it.

“Is something wrong?” Simon asked.

Both of them turned in surprise.
 

“It’s in hand,” the man said, squeezing the woman’s arms tightly as she tried to turn out of his grip.

Simon glared at the man and looked meaningfully at the way he was holding her. “Then perhaps you should let her go.”

He ignored Simon’s implied threat and looked back into the office. The woman turned her gray eyes to Simon, and Elizabeth could see she wanted to say something, but the doctor’s appearance in the doorway shut her mouth.

“Nothing’s wrong,” the doctor said. “A misunderstanding. Roderick?” He nodded toward his man’s tight grip.

Reluctantly, the other let go. Lizzy snorted and rubbed her arms, but held her tongue. The doctor took a step toward her and she flinched, backing up a step warily.

“I think we’re clear on things now,” he said.

She looked at him with venom and fear. “Crystal.”

“See her out, Roderick,” the doctor ordered and his man reached for Lizzy’s arm again, but she snatched it away. She straightened the sleeves of her grubby dress and lifted her chin before walking away with as much pride as she could muster. Roderick followed a menacing pace behind her.

“What was that all about?” Simon asked once she and Roderick were out of earshot.

“Nothing.”

“That was rather forceful for nothing,” Simon said.
 

The doctor sighed. “You have to be firm with people like that. They’re used to behaving like animals; sometimes you must treat them as such.” He smiled then as though none of it had happened, and gestured for them to precede him into his office.

“Is she a patient of yours?” Elizabeth asked as she walked into a large office with more books than air in it. It was all she could do to pretend two men manhandling a poor woman was perfectly normal and acceptable.

“No,” he said with a gasping laugh. “Perhaps she’s seen me at the clinic or Bethlem.”

“Bethlam?” Elizabeth asked. “Bethlam Royal Hospital?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think there are any others. Several of my test subjects are there. Patients that are beyond healing, but can still give us answers to the questions we seek.”

Elizabeth nodded and tried not to look surprised. Bethlam Royal Hospital, better known as Bedlam, played an important part in Vale’s future. It had to be more than coincidence that Dr. Blackwood worked there as well.

“Of course,” she said, casting a quick glance at Simon.

The doctor moved around to sit behind his desk. “In addition to my heavy schedule, I volunteer once a week at a local clinic. Some of the patients think that means I’m available to them for everything, including skinned knees or the mumps.”

“So you do hands on medicine in addition to your research?” Elizabeth asked taking a chair opposite him.

“There is a shortage of capable physicians. I do what I can to pitch in,” he added with a modest smile. “But you’re not here to hear about that, are you? We have far greater things on the horizon. Our work is at the vanguard of discovering the clues to the Pathology of the Mind. The very essence of man.”

He leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself. “Far more interesting than the mumps, don’t you think?”

~~~

Victor leaned against the cold stone of the building and waited. Pizer was at work and with little else to go on, he decided that following the victim instead of the suspect might bear more fruit. Or any fruit at all.

He’d found Annie Chapman leaving the Ten Bells at about ten o’clock that morning with Elizabeth Stride. They’d talked briefly and then walked over to Whitechapel Road. He wasn’t sure where he’d expected them to go, but the hospital wasn’t it.

While Stride went inside, Chapman lingered out front. She flitted about, obviously a little nervous until she saw someone she recognized. A thick-necked cab driver smiled as she walked over to him. From Victor’s position, he couldn’t make out what they were saying to each other.
 

He was surprised to see the Crosses go into the hospital, but he supposed they were following up one of their leads. Such as they were.
 

About twenty minutes after she’d gone inside, Stride came down out of the hospital. It didn’t look as though she’d been treated for anything, there were no obvious signs anyway, but she was agitated. When she reached the bottom of the front steps, she turned back angrily. A stout man in a nice suit seemed to be the target of her temper. He was unmoved by it and turned to go back inside.