A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7) (17 page)

Stride marched over to Chapman and the driver. The two women said their goodbyes to the man and walked off talking, each glancing back at the hospital before leaning in to whisper to the other.
 

He trailed after them, wishing now he’d followed Stride inside the hospital instead of waiting out front with Chapman. Whomever Stride had spoken to and whatever they’d spoken about, both women had something to do with it. And when both women were soon-to-be victims of the Ripper that connection loomed all the more important. There was nothing he could do about it but stay with Chapman now and be there when the moment, however horrible, came.
 

E
LIZABETH
WAS
GLAD
SHE
didn’t have a mirror to look in. If she looked half as bad as Simon, well then, she looked perfect. That didn’t do anything to calm the butterflies in her stomach though.

“Let me see,” Simon said as he took her by the shoulders and turned her toward him in the faint lamplight of Victor’s room. He studied her face for a moment, making sure each soap and vinegar bubble looked like a blister or flaking skin.
 

Inspired by their visit to the theater and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, they’d found a small theater shop and bought make-up and false teeth to enhance their East End looks. It had done the trick. Their healthy complexions were sallow now, their skin diseased, even the shapes of their faces were changed by the false teeth.
 

Simon finished examining her and nodded, his eyes catching hers and lingering. In them she could see all of her fears and worries reflected, and enhanced. Last time they’d done this, they’d both nearly gotten killed. And tonight, Victor would not be there to save their bacon. He was on his own path, as was Charles Graham. It seemed the best idea to separate, increasing their chances of seeing what needed to be seen. But now, alone together, about to head out again into the miasma of Whitechapel, Elizabeth felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

Simon squeezed her shoulders gently in comfort.
 

“It will be all right,” he said, and then let her go to recheck the pistol in his pocket that he’d already checked and rechecked half a dozen times.

“We’ve been in worse situations,” Elizabeth said, leaving off that this one felt different somehow.
 

It felt like the night itself was a physical presence all around them, pressing against them, fighting them. They’d gone into dangerous situations before and she’d always been frightened, it was foolish not to be, but there was something about this entire mission that left her feeling off balance. Maybe it was the way time could alter, like an earthquake, without warning and the earth beneath their feet suddenly shifting. Or maybe it was that the whole thing was tainted. They’d saved people before, people who deserved a second chance. She shuddered to think what Jack the Ripper would do with his.

“All right?” Simon asked.

She nodded and Simon slipped in his false teeth.

“Stay close,” he said and she couldn’t help but laugh.
 

The teeth changed his voice and gave him a marble-mouthed sound and whistling “s”.

“Elizabeth,” he said and she laughed again.

It was nerves and she shook her head in apology.
 

He took out the teeth. “Elizabeth.”

“I’m sorry.”

He fought down a smile and started to put the teeth back in, but instead took a step toward her. His hand gently cupped her cheek. His eyes darted back and forth across her face, taking her all in.
 

There was a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. “You’re…hideous,” he said. She would have laughed if it wasn’t for the way his eyes darkened into something emotional.
 

His voice grew low and rough. “And I love you so very much.”

An instant lump formed in the back of her throat and she tried to swallow it. She nodded and took a small hiccuping breath.

He leaned down and kissed her. As his lips touched hers, she wanted to stop time. She wanted to stay right there in that moment and forget everything that came before and everything that would come after. But time wasn’t on her payroll and ignored her.

Simon gently pulled away and looked at her fiercely. “Stay close.”

“If I could get in your pocket, I would.”

He smiled and nodded.

She put in her false teeth, and with one last look at each other, they started for Whitechapel and the murder of Annie Chapman.

~~~

The street outside of Crossingham’s lodging house was nearly empty. A few people staggered past, but none gave Victor a second thought. He saw a few carts and carriages drive past as he waited. One was the same cab from the hospital with the driver Chapman had talked to, but the carriage didn’t stop here; it drove past and disappeared into the night.

Victor leaned against a wall across the street, and packed a new pipe as he continued to wait. It was his third. He was smoking far too much. Not that it mattered. Something else would surely kill him first.

He lit the pipe and settled in. He’d been following Annie Chapman all day. She’d made the usual rounds, pub after pub, until finally stumbling back to her lodging house.

From reading Travers’ files Victor knew what was happening inside. She’d run out of money, having spent her last penny at the pub. Right now, she was probably promising the deputy that she’d go out and earn enough, and to please save her a bed for the night. Without it, she would be out on the street.

Victor took a pull from his pipe and blew the smoke up into the cooling night air. Modern people thought they knew what a hand to mouth existence was, what surviving day to day really meant, but most had no idea how literal it was in Whitechapel.

A few minutes later, right on cue, the night watchman escorted Chapman from the lodging house. She would come back with the four pence for a bed or not come back at all, he told her.
 

She would not come back at all.
 

The line between life and death was always thin—turning left instead of right, being five minutes early or five minutes late—made all the difference. For Annie Chapman, the difference between life and death was four pence.

Still quite drunk, Chapman teetered on her feet before aiming herself in the direction of Bushfield Street. Victor waited until she was far enough ahead and then followed quietly behind.

He was nothing more than a shadow in her shadow. Even if she were sober, he was sure she would take no notice of him. This was what he excelled at—following, watching, waiting.

As they made their way through the rabbit warren of streets that made up the East End, he was glad he was on his own and didn’t have to babysit the Crosses. They would no doubt get into trouble here again, but it would not be his problem this time. This time the mission would come first, as it should have before. He wasn’t sure what had come over him then. He should have let those thugs cut their throats and be done with them, but he hadn’t. Couldn’t.

Perhaps some spark of humanity lived inside him after all. If it did, he thought with a tightening in his gut, it would die tonight.
 

Gently slapping his pipe against his palm, he knocked the last bit of smoldering tobacco out. It fell into a dank puddle, fizzled briefly, and then disappeared.
 

Chapman turned toward Spitalfields Market and her fate, and Victor followed. They’d only gone a few blocks when Victor noticed a man casually leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed over chest. The clothes were different, and it took Victor a moment to place the face under the bowler hat, but he recognized the man—Charles Graham. It wasn’t surprising to see him here. After all, he was on the same hunt.

Even though he didn’t know who Victor was, thank God Cross had at least enough sense to keep him out of his plan, Victor kept in the shadows. He didn’t like to be seen—by anyone, if he could help it, and Graham was no exception.
 

Luckily, Victor could see Annie Chapman quite well now. She walked down the center of the street, meandering along some invisible line. When she saw Graham, she wove her way over to him.

Victor couldn’t get close enough to hear their conversation without giving himself away, and so he stayed put and watched.

Graham tipped his hat and she set about trying to earn her four pence. She leaned against his arm in what was supposed to be a seductive way, and might have been if she hadn’t nearly fallen in the process. Graham helped her stand back up and she laughed, trying to straighten her hat. She placed a “don’t you want to?” hand on his arm and jerked her head toward a nearby alley.

They spoke for another moment before Chapman ran a finger along Graham’s cheek and then started off down the street. Graham watched her and then started north, probably heading to the scene of the crime from the back way. If the Crosses managed to stay alive tonight, it would be like a damned train station there.

Victor waited long enough for Graham to be out of sight and then hurried along the sidewalk to catch up to Chapman. It was easy enough work; she was slow on her feet. He could hear her humming something to herself, but he didn’t recognize the tune.

Spitalfields Market was just up ahead. The large open-air market was as quiet as a graveyard. This time tomorrow it would be filled with costermongers and carts readying for the early Sunday morning shoppers. But for now, it lay still and empty, a promise of something to come.

Chapman stopped for a moment and looked longingly through the gate. When she continued on, she didn’t keep going east as Victor had assumed she would. She turned left and he had to cross the street to follow her. As he did, two men stepped out of doorway.

“What’re ya doin’?” one of of them said, as they blocked his path.

He tried to ignore them and move around the big one, but he sidestepped in front him.

“We don’t like strangers,” he said, “‘specially strangers that follow girls.”

Victor gave them both a quick study. They were no match for him, even with the blackjack the smaller one held in the palm of his hand. They were both out of shape. The big man wheezed just standing there.
 

“Mind your own business,” Victor said and started forward.

The big man put a meaty hand on his chest and Victor grabbed his wrist and thumb, twisting it until the man cried out.

The other one lunged forward and Victor spun his friend into him, sending them both tumbling to the ground. They struggled to their feet and Victor stood ready.
 

“I don’t have all night,” Victor said. The last thing he could afford was to waste time with these two idiots.

“Oh, I think you do,” one of them said with a wide gap-toothed smile.

Victor started forward, but he never finished the step. He felt something hard crack along the back of his head. He only had time to curse himself before darkness came and he fell unconscious to the street.

~~~

Simon kept his hand in his pocket, the metal of the gun barrel cool against his fingers. His eyes swept the area constantly, looking for anything, anyone that might be a threat. He would not be caught off guard tonight.

Elizabeth shuffled alongside him, doing a very good impression of a drunk. Her steps were uneven and she wobbled a bit as she walked, occasionally veering off course and bumping into his side.

They had arrived near the crime scene early, but knew they couldn’t linger there. The backyard where Annie Chapman would be killed was surrounded by a fence. There were only two ways in—the front door of 29 Hanbury Street and a gate near the back. They’d circled the block several times, standing in the shadows of doorways while they took stock of the area. The streets were fairly narrow here, and the buildings rising three and four stories high. The gas lamps struggled to give off any appreciable light.
 

There weren’t many people out. Simon made a quick check of his watch, nearly four in the morning. It could happen at any time now. From what he could remember, the eyewitness accounts had been debatable at best. Annie Chapman hadn’t been seen since just after 1:30 a.m. Others had claimed to have passed through the yard and seen nothing until later. One woman said she thought she saw Chapman as late as 5:30 a.m., but the coroner’s report put the death at least an hour before that.
 

Simon and Elizabeth had no way of knowing what, if any, of that information had been right, and so they stood and waited. The policemen made their rounds like clockwork, but thankfully none of them walked up Hanbury Street.
 

Elizabeth rubbed her upper arms to warm them from the night’s chill. Simon started to remove his jacket, intending to give it to her, but stopped when he heard a sound coming from inside the yard. He froze in place, his heart beating a bit faster in his chest.

He and Elizabeth exchanged glances and he eased them back further into the doorway. The side gate opened and a man stepped out. He scuffed his shoe on the ground and looked up into the night. Whoever he was, he was in no hurry.

Elizabeth gripped Simon’s arm and looked at him in silent question. Simon looked back at the man, remembering that a resident of the apartments had walked through the yard, stopping to fix a boot on the way.
 

He turned back to Elizabeth and shook his head. Her face fell, both relieved and let down. Simon let out a breath and tried to let the adrenaline that had shot though his body fade. Rolling his shoulders he leaned back against the wall and they resumed their vigil.
 

It wasn’t long before they heard footsteps—two pairs—growing nearer. Simon edged forward and peered around the corner of the building, sure to remain hidden from view. In the distance he saw a couple, a man and a woman. They were too far away to make out clearly, but the woman could have been Chapman.

Simon moved silently back to their hiding place in the arched doorway and began to raise a finger urging Elizabeth to keep quiet. But when he turned, she wasn’t tucked into the doorway, she was standing in the middle of the street, looking at him with shock.