A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7) (6 page)

He smiled. “I was going to ask what we should do first, but…” he said, as he pulled her closer and kissed her.

Elizabeth let herself forget everything else and disappeared into that one perfect moment. A sharp knocking on the door shattered it.

A deeply dissatisfied sound rumbled deep in Simon’s chest and he pulled away as the knocking came again.

He let go of her and strode into the sitting room, Elizabeth following.
 

Two bellboys brought in their trunks, depositing them in the bedroom.

As soon as they left, Elizabeth opened one and began to unpack. The gowns would probably have to be pressed. They were exquisite, and between them and the beautiful room they’d gotten at Brown’s, she started to feel a little guilty. Here they were, staying at one of the most upscale hotels in one of the most upscale neighborhoods of London while the people who were hunted by Jack the Ripper lived in squalor just a few miles away.

She laid a dress out on the bed. “Do you think we should stay here?”

Simon looked around the room in confusion. “Is something wrong with it?”

“No. I just mean we’re here and he’s there. Maybe we should be closer to it all?”

Simon took a breath and sat down in one of the reading chairs. “There’s some evidence to suggest the Ripper was a doctor or another man of means. If we’re going to get anywhere near the wealthier suspects we can’t be living in Spitalfields.”

“I suppose.”

“It’s far easier to live richly and pretend to be poor than the other way around,” Simon said.
 

Having done both, Elizabeth had to agree.

“Besides, the upper class here is afforded resources the rest simply are not,” he continued. “Before this is over, we may need access to power and influence, and those things will be found here amongst the idle rich and not the working poor.”
 

“You’re right,” Elizabeth said. “And I’m guessing from the way Victor was dressed, he’ll be staying in the poorer section of town. Although, I wish he’d just told us his plan, or anything at all for that matter.”

Simon grunted.

“But,” she continued. “At least he’s here.”

“Yes,” Simon said, unimpressed. “Somewhere.”

~~~

Victor started back up Old Broad Street and tugged his cap down as afternoon sank into evening and the damp air grew teeth.

As he always did when he arrived, he’d spent the first few hours walking the streets of his new neighborhood. He’d studied every alley, every corner, and every beggar he’d come across. Tomorrow, he’d go to Buck’s Row where Mary Nichols would be killed and do the same there. He’d walk the streets until he could do it in the dark. He’d have to. They would all have to.

Just the thought of the Crosses soured his mood. What was Travers thinking?

Victor had heard about the Crosses. Few knew about them, but there were no secrets among those who did. Their record was good, he had to admit, but she was young, impulsive and headstrong. He was more calculating, but a fool where she was concerned. That was a dangerous combination. The Crosses were his cross to bear, for now at least. He’d help them, until they got in the way.

He walked another block and stopped at a coster’s apple barrow. Finally finding one that didn’t have worms in it, he paid and slipped it into his pocket.

Across the street, a boy cried out. A large man had cuffed him on the side of the head and then held him up above the sidewalk by his lapels.

“You do that again, boy, and you’ll lose your hand, you will,” the big man bellowed, and then glared down at another, smaller boy who stood huddled nearby. “And don’t think I didn’t see you there.”

“We wasn’t doin’ nuffink,” the boy protested. “We was just looking is all.”

Victor had noticed them earlier. They’d been following the man and his donkey cart full of potatoes down the street, waiting for an opening.

The man shook the boy and then tossed him aside. “Stay away!”

Victor’s jaw tightened as he observed it all silently. He watched the big man urge his donkey cart on. The boys scurried away, but Victor saw the little one show his friend their prize, a small potato, before slipping it back under his jacket.

The duo ran to the corner and around it, but their little faces peeked back around to watch the man disappear down the street. Gleefully, they ducked back into the alley.

With a plan in mind, Victor dodged the traffic as he crossed the street. The boys were huddled together, the little one furiously gnawing on the raw potato.

Victor stopped at the mouth of the alley, the other side a dead end.
 

“You’re lucky he was as blind as he was fat,” Victor said.

The boys bolted upright and looked ready to make a run for it.

Victor held up his hands. “It’s all right. I’m not here to take it from you.”

The older boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten, didn’t move, but the younger one couldn’t keep his hunger at bay and dug into the potato again.

“How’d you like to earn enough to buy a whole sack of those?”
 

The older boy stared at him and then jutted out his chin. “Doin’ what?”

“Running a few messages.” Victor took a shilling out of his pocket. “Of course, I need someone who can run fast. You look a little slow.”

The boy stepped forward eagerly. “I’m fast. I can beat anyone on the street.”

“Is that so?”

“I can do it blindfolded.”

Victor didn’t laugh at the boy’s bravado. “I need a man I can trust.”

“You can trust me,” the boy said, eyeing the money and then raising his hand, crossing his heart and spitting twice. “I swear.”

“All right,” Victor said. “Do you know where McNally’s is?”

“Sure. It’s right up—”

“Come by there in an hour and I’ll give you this to take a message to Brown’s Hotel. If you do all right, there’ll be more.”

The boy’s eyes glittered as he nodded. A shilling would probably buy him food for a week.

“What’s your name?” Victor asked.

“Freddie, sir.”

Victor watched him for a moment, then stuffed his hands into his jacket pocket as he turned to leave. He felt the apple, took it out and tossed it to the boy.
 

“An hour,” he said over his shoulder as he left. “Don’t be late.”

V
ICTORIAN
MORALITY
WAS
STRICT
, prudish and absurdly earnest. Repression was the name of the game, and history showed how well that always works out. The Victorians’ obsession with controlling all things sexual led to a fascination with it and a rise in the very debauchery they were so frightened of. At the beginning of the era, the mere mention of the word “leg” in mixed company could be considered inappropriate. Thankfully, Elizabeth thought as she looked around, things seemed to have loosened up a bit. A woman walking alone during the day only garnered a few hairy eyeballs and not a trunkful. Ah, progress.

Elizabeth ignored the lingering looks that followed her as she made her way down Brook Street alone. A Victorian woman without any sort of escort, male or female, was a rarity. While everyone smiled and nodded politely in greeting as she passed, she could feel the askance in their glance. Their upbringing forced them to disapprove, but it also forced them to do it silently with only the narrowing of an eye or the quirk of lip. She could swear though, that not all of the lingering looks were judging her poorly. Aside from the occasional reserved, but appreciative expression, she also saw no small measure of envy in some.
 

She would happily endure worse if it meant she could get out and about. The idea of being cooped up in the hotel while Simon was off actually doing things was unthinkable.
 

Last night, they’d received a note from Victor with the address of his room and a request to meet Simon there the following day.
 

Elizabeth scrunched up her nose at the memory. Just Simon, no mention of her at all. If he thought she was going to sit demurely by while they did all the work, that Frenchman had
une autre
think coming! Simon tried to soothe her and pointed out that he needed to find them appropriate clothes for tonight. He would probably need to go to places where a wealthy couple might draw too much attention.

They both hated the idea of being apart, but would have to risk it if they wanted to succeed here. Reluctantly, she’d agreed not to go, but she wasn’t going to sit on her duff either. Young Katherine Vale and Charles Graham were somewhere in the city and she intended to find them. Simon had, predictably, protested until she reminded him that Graham was purportedly an expert on Jack the Ripper and young Vale didn’t hate them, at least not yet. They could be useful. That was, if she could find them.

She assumed they’d also choose to stay at an upscale hotel, and so she’d set out wandering the streets of Mayfair in search of them. There was no shortage of possibilities. She’d started with the hotels on Albemarle—the York, Pulteney’s, Buckland’s—and was making her way north toward Claridge’s.

She’d ask discreetly at the desk for both of them and then linger for a cup of tea in the tearooms, hoping to catch a glimpse of them. She’d seen photographs of Graham and knew she could recognize Vale, twenty years younger or not.

So far, she’d had three finger sandwiches, two scones and no luck. The tea was up to her eyeballs by the time she reached Claridge’s and was seated in the elegant, high-ceilinged foyer. She ordered, and set about her usual routine of inconspicuously scanning the room. From her vantage point, she could see most of the tables, but sadly none of them had any familiar faces sitting at them.

One good thing was that she’d finally gotten used to perching herself on the very lip of her chair. Since her bustle took up most of the actual seat, she had little choice. As far as victories went though, it was of the pretty sad variety.

The waiter brought over a tray of cakes and éclairs. She turned them all away. It was a bad sign when an even an éclair couldn’t cheer her up. Elizabeth knew it was going to take some time and more than a little luck to find Graham and Vale this way, but she was disappointed nonetheless.
 

Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the wall. She’d give it a few more minutes, then pack it up and head back to Brown’s. She sipped her tea and tried to overhear conversations, hoping against hope for the mention of her quarry.

At the next table, a business deal was begin brokered, and at another a romance. Neither was going well. The third party was just breaking up. Two very well-dressed gentlemen stood and said their goodbyes.

The taller of the two, nice looking and a little sad about the eyes, said, “I’ll see you in the park then, John. Sunday?”

The other man, presumably John, nodded and smiled affectionately at his friend. They shook hands, clasping both hands and lingering for just a moment longer than usual, before the taller man looked about nervously and pulled away.

“Your carriage is waiting, Mr. Druitt,” a hotel staff member said.

Perhaps more than friends? Elizabeth wondered.

“Around two?” John said, as he put on his hat. “On the bridge?”

The other man nodded and then his gaze slid again across the room to a table with two older women and their frowns of haughty disapproval. Whoever those two were, they’d noticed the same interplay she had and Did Not Approve.

When Elizabeth turned her attention back to the man, she found him looking at her, a worried expression on his face. Perhaps he thought she was in league with the women or would gossip about what she’d seen. Eager to reassure him, she offered him an understanding and commiserating smile.

Tentatively, he returned it before looking again at the older women and then back to her, his smile blossoming into something mischievous.

“Well hello, my dear!” he said loudly, as he approached her, reaching out for her hand. “Please play along and I’ll forever be in your debt,” he whispered.

Elizabeth offered her hand. “Well, hello to you, too,” she said hesitantly.

“It’s so delightful to see you again,” he said as he kissed her hand and then asked if he could sit, doing so before she could reply. He tugged his chair closer to hers.

“Thank you,” he said, casting a quick glance in the direction of the old women. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure what to do. The path of least resistance seemed to be the best choice for now.

“One that involves sitting with strange women?” she said.

His smile grew wider. “Whenever possible. My aunt, you see, she’s the one that looks like an owl with a touch of the dyspepsia, thinks of me as something of scoundrel, a ladies’ man. And, if at all possible, I’d like to keep it that way.”

“You’re very forward, aren’t you?” Elizabeth said, unable to hide her amusement at his outlandish honesty.

He shook out a napkin and laid it on his lap as he reached for a finger sandwich. “Far better than being backward now, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth laughed. She liked this loon.

 
He took a bite of the sandwich and then wiped his hands on the napkin.

“So,” he said as he took out a cigarette case from his jacket pocket and offered her one. She declined with a shake of the head.

After lighting the cigarette and exhaling toward the ceiling, he continued, “Whom do I have the pleasure of disgracing with my company today?”

“Elizabeth Cross,” she said, holding out her hand, “and the pleasure is mine.”

He shook it with a smile. “George Roxbury. And what brings you to London, my dear, and into my very lucky path?”

Elizabeth knew their planned backstory well. “Traveling with my husband.”

His eyes widened in false alarm. “Husband? Should I prepare to defend myself?”

“If he were here,” she said, “you would know it by now, I assure you.”

“Mmm. Good point,” he said, taking another pull from his cigarette. “He’s let you out to play on your own, has he?”

“He doesn’t
let
me do anything,” she said pointedly.

George smiled approvingly. “We are a pair then, aren’t we? Dangerous characters threatening the very fabric of society.”