Shadows Fall Away (17 page)

On the other hand, I could look for the murder scenes and see if I could stake them out. That wasn’t an easy choice, because the area was so different than in my own time. Wandering around gawking like a tourist trying to place these streets to the ones I’d hardly paid attention to on the night time convention tour would either draw extra attention of the constables or neighbors or scare off the Ripper. And I didn’t want to think what would happen if I changed the Ripper’s pattern of murders. Then, I’d be worse off than the police.

Once the murders happened, I could maybe follow up and try to find someone who seemed extra curious about the cops’ investigation but I had no way to try to
prevent
the crimes.

“Good morning, Mr. Stewart.”

I jumped and peered up to see Genie standing nearby. I nearly forgot to stand up but she took the stool next to me to save me the trouble.

Mrs. O’Connell came over. “Miss Trambley, how nice to see ya back. Was it a good trip? Can I get you somethin’?”

Genie smiled and nodded. “Tea and a sweet roll, please,” she said. “It was a pleasant enough trip although train travel is a bit hectic. I think the fortnight in the countryside will do Mother good. She’s been so on edge the past few months.”

“Good morning, Miss Trambley,” I said quietly.

She nodded toward the crumpled sheets of paper on the counter in front of me. “Saving us from ourselves again, are we?”

“More like I’m supporting the paper mills. Mr. Gurov said my last attempt was cr—um, not suitable for publication so more paper gets ripped up by the editor and I buy more and start over.”

She polished her glasses.

I hated to admit it but I was glad she was back. But only partly because I bet she knew the answers to my questions of who and where the murders would happen. I couldn’t just come straight out and ask her, because that could turn out all wrong and make me look guilty.

Genie carefully un-crumpled the pages and patted them into a neat pile. She turned and stared at me. “Then what do you propose for your next literary masterpiece?”

“I’d like to try to put a human face on the conditions in Whitechapel. Maybe profiling some of the people who live here, put together a picture of the average people. Like shop employees, the laborers, even the prostitutes. Maybe give a view of the people from their own perspective.” I was mostly spewing B.S., but the idea wasn’t so bad. If I couldn’t track down the future victims I might at least get an article or two done and make a buck—or a few shillings.

Genie being around really did stimulate my thinking. Among other things I didn’t want to think about just now.

Her eyes had widened in interest. “That might very well do wonders to expose conditions here. Do you think they’ll talk to you?” she asked. “They are a fairly suspicious bunch.”

I gave her the smile that always helped me get out of detention with one of our youngest teachers. “They will if you ask them to.”

She stiffened. “So you need another favor from me. I don’t believe I’ve yet collected on all those you already owe me.”

“Being the reason you got to exit the fundraiser earlier should be good enough payback.” I grinned.

Genie started to frown but stopped herself. “I see. And where would you like to start?”

Way to go, dumbass.
“I’ll leave that to you. You know the area and people better than me.”

A strange expression washed over her face. I realized it happened every time I’d said something about her being good at something. Then it hit me. Of course she was leery when I complimented her on her thinking. It had probably never happened to her before. She wasn’t used to anyone, especially a guy, treating her as an equal or admitting she might know more than them. This was something I might be able to use, but I told myself I’d better not take advantage of it.

***

Two nights later, Genie introduced me to some of the women.

“Ooooh, luvie,” the one called Annie cooed as they approached, “Bringin’ us business now? Nice looking young bloke ‘e is, too. Sure ya don’t wanna keep ‘im fer yerself?”

Another one chimed in, “Aye, Missy, you want to ‘elp us out, that’s the way to do it! Bring us customers.”

Genie stiffened. “I most certainly am
not
bringing you business. This is Mark Stewart, the American who shall be writing articles on the people of Whitechapel. He would like to interview some of you.”

“Interview? Oh, there’s a lovely word for it, now ain’t it?”

I laughed. “Well,” he said, “I
do
want intercourse…”

“Mr. Stewart!”

“Only the social kind, Miss Trambley.” I looked back to Annie who clearly wasn’t Annie Chapman. “I’ll buy a drink for anyone who wants to give me the real story, not bullshit.”

“Mr. Stewart,” Genie said firmly, “I have been trying to impress upon these women that drink is part of their problem.”

“Not a problem if ‘e’s buyin’,” Annie shot back. Hooking her arm through mine, she guided me to the door of the pub. “Now, what is it you’re wanting to know?”

* * * *

Unfortunately the things they had to tell didn’t do much to point me in the direction of the Ripper’s victims.

I looked at the water-stained calendar Gurov let me have. There were ten days until Polly Nichols’ murder and eighteen days to Annie Chapman’s.

As the son of a homicide cop, I felt like I sort of had a duty to catch the Ripper before he killed again. On a selfish level, I hoped it would just get me the hell home.

If my plan worked, I’d be back home with no memory of seeing history up close and person, or Mrs. O’s awesome cooking. No Genie Trambley around to bug me. It would be like she never existed to me. At least I hoped that’s how it would work.

Mark

The day of Polly Nichols’ murder dawned partly cloudy but turned clearer and dry as evening slid across the dirty streets of Whitechapel. A little bit of a moon floated over the rooftops as I wandered near the pubs, hoping against hope to prevent Polly’s murder or catch the Ripper before he got away.

The daylight hours had nearly driven me crazy, knowing there was nothing to be done until after dark. Three times I’d had started to go to Ian and blurt out the truth, no matter how insane it sounded. The first two times, Ian had been out. The third time, Inspector Reid had abruptly summoned Ian away and given me a dismissive glance, as if to say, “You’re a good young chap but you’re wasting police time.”

Finally, I took that as an omen. A cosmic
three strikes and you’re out
telling me to keep my big mouth shut. I had no choice now but to try to carefully stake out the murder scene on my own.

It took me a while to locate the soon-to-be murder site. It was further East than I thought. Buck’s Row was fairly long and I couldn’t find a place where I could watch the whole street. So I took a chance on covering one end. I found a pile of rubble to hide behind later near Barker’s Row, the point closest to the major pubs in the area. The other end of the street was out near the Jewish Cemetery and that seemed an unlikely place for Nichols to be conducting her business.

As the night slid along, I walked a bit more, searching the faces of everyone I passed. I hoped to catch a glimpse of the doomed woman or at least spot someone who had the look of a psychopathic murderer.

Yeah, I was pretty much wandering aimlessly and hoping for a miracle.

***

Genie

I had just left Mother at the infirmary to visit and tend to some of her “gallant lads” now that she’d returned from her fortnight in Northampton. On the way to secure a cab, I came across a most interesting thing but quickly told myself I shouldn’t be surprised to see Mark Stewart peering into pubs well after midnight.

I reasoned he was simply trying to find someone to talk to, something write about, that I had no cause to have wicked thoughts about his motives. And yet, I couldn’t forget the sudden heat of his body nor the intense look in his eyes the night he’d almost kissed me. Even young, he was a man, after all, and men did have needs.

But he didn’t resemble any of the men I passed, who eyed the women as if the streets were store shelving filled for their purchases. Mark had a strange expression on his face, a haunted look. A look that frightened me a little.

He must have sensed me behind him and he whirled, a wild light in his eye before he recognized me.

“Miss Trambley, you’re the last
person I expected to see out here tonight.”

“Obviously.” I kept my voice calm even though I had to speak loudly to be heard over the racket coming from the nearby pub. “Who were you expecting?”

He seemed completely distracted, his eyes never leaving the passers-by. “No one,” he said. “I mean, I was looking for someone and hoped to find her down here.”

“Oh.” My stomach twisted with a sudden sick feeling I refused to let show. “Is it someone special, perhaps? A friend for the evening?”

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time, his face going through a series of changes so quickly I couldn’t begin to identify them.

“If I wanted to get laid, I wouldn’t have to pay for it.”

Was he implying he could have me if he wanted? Had he sensed my foolish desire that night? Or was he calling me a whore, implying I was out now, searching the night for the likes of him?

Anger, confusion, and revulsion coursed through me. “I’m sure your intelligence and good looks are sufficient to make them all want to pay you!” I spun on my heel and stormed off, ignoring his protestations and dodging through the crowd to shake off his pursuit.

“Miss Trambley!” he shouted. “Damnit, Genie! Stop!”

Tears threatened to blur my vision but I fought them back. He would
not
have me. Ever. And he would
not
treat me like a common prostitute.

He grabbed my arm and spun me around.

“This is not a safe place to be tonight,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Please, just go home. Go. Anywhere but here!”

I wrenched free. “It is you I should be afraid of. Now leave me alone before I call a constable!”

“Dammit, girl! Will you listen and go home!”

I swung my umbrella again and the heavy handle caught him just above his left eye. He staggered back, clutching his face.

Without another word, I hurried into the crowd. This time, he did not follow.

Genie

“Oh, Miss Eugenia, you got to stop going to Whitechapel at night. You got to stop, ‘specially now—”

The maid broke off when Mother entered the dining room for breakfast. “Whatever are you on about now, Sarah? Have you burnt our meal?”

Sarah wrung her hands. “No, Ma’am, the food is fine. There’s been another nasty murder down Whitechapel!”

Mother sniffed. “That has nothing to do with
us.
It’s certainly no reason to delay our breakfast.” She sat at her place and plucked a piece of toast from the rack.

“But you was down there last night, Ma’am. It’s just too dangerous—”

Mother’s head snapped towards Sarah. She pinned her in place with her gaze. “To suggest that I might be in any danger either defames those brave men I tend to or implies I have business outside the Wards. And any such slander will have you looking for a new employer without reference quicker than you can blink!”

“I mean no disrespect, Ma’am. I’m just concerned for you is all.” She stepped aside to let Father enter. “I’ll fetch the tea now,” she said, beating a hasty retreat.

“How are your soldiers, Mother?” Father smoothly interrupted further outburst.

“We lost another last night, pour soul. Dead before his time, driven to drink by the immoral wife he left behind when he went to war.”

“That was over thirty years ago,” Father replied. “Surely enough time for him to have recovered from the shock.”

“Enough time? There would not be enough time in eternity if you came home from the war and found your wife a common whore and your children begging in the streets.”

“Most likely he’d run off to the adventure of war as so many have and left his family penniless.”

I cast around for something to divert the impending clash of their tempers. It didn’t happen often but clearly Father was in a difficult mood. My attention focused on the bandage on Mother’s right hand. “What happened to your hand, Mother? Are you all right?”

Her mouth worked itself into a knot as she cut the sausage on her plate into thin, even slices. “One of your father’s doctors in training left his case unlatched and a knife fell out and cut my hand when I was clearing it away.”

Father cleared his throat. “You really should have a matron accompany you,” he said quietly.

Mother replied with a harrumph. “We need young doctors who don’t leave their kits behind like children’s forgotten toys. And, we need a proper ward solely for the veterans.”

Turning towards me, she added, “We might have gotten that ward had it not been for the extraordinarily rude behavior of a certain guest at Lord Amberson’s home.”

I lowered my head, unable to erase the image of Mark that night, passionately arguing for more training for women nurses, then the image of him in the garden, so handsome, so close. My cheeks burned and I forced the image to the Mark Stewart I’d seen last night, acting like a man possessed or wild with drink.

Were either of those images the real Mark Stewart? Or was there yet another young man hidden behind his compelling eyes? As much as I wanted to hate him, I wanted more to understand him.

Yes, he had behaved shamefully in some respects. But if his behavior had been shocking, he was not alone. I looked back at Mother. “I agree entirely,” I said. “I think it scandalous the way Phoebe shamelessly flirted with all the men there—and some of them married! And the way Captain Walters carried on about the lazy, ignorant louts in the ranks. He defamed the very men we’re trying to support!”

Mother’s eyes widened and she gaped silently before regaining her senses. “You know very well that was not what I meant.”

I held my ground, knowing how shaky it was but I also knew that it was worse to retreat. “Oh?” I asked innocently. “Did you mean Mr. Stewart, then? I thought his notion of training nurses to serve as physicians’ assistants would have met with your approval. It would certainly solve many of the staffing problems you yourself have complained of.”