Downtime (25 page)

There wasn’t a whole lot to investigate. The cops had done their job, and I was sure that within a day or two of the murder more than a few curious neighbors had contaminated any evidence left. The yard was smaller than my apartment patio back home and, according to reports, Annie had been found lying beside the door.

Even if Jack had killed her somewhere else and moved her body, he couldn’t have dumped her without making a commotion. And yet no one had heard a thing. I had to assume noise coming from the alley late at night was so common that the residents would have been able to sleep right through it. God knew I could sleep through Friday morning garbage pickups without any problem. As long as Jack had prevented her from screaming, no one would necessarily think anything of noises resulting from a brief physical struggle.

For now, I’d have to pin it to that. There were traces of dried blood on the ground near the gate and outside it, indicating she had been moved or had at least struggled mightily to save herself—or that the ensuing investigation by the police and other parties had tracked blood from a single location to different areas of the scene. Gathering samples was pointless, as was a search for prints.

“Damn it,” I muttered, giving the bleak little plot one last look.

“Morgan,” Ezra hissed through the bars, just as the door opened behind me.

I turned to see a short, grandmotherly woman, black skirts hoisted in one hand, heave herself down the steps in my direction and advance on me with energy born of indignation. “Here, I’ve a lock on that gate for good reason. I’ll have an end to this poking about. Back the way you came.”

“Mrs. Richardson?” I yanked off my hat belatedly and offered her a gentlemanly bow. From behind me there was a muffled, derisive sound and I pretended I hadn’t heard. “Mrs. Richardson, if I could just ask you a few questions—”

“You’ve got cheek. What d’you think this is, a tour up the bleedin’ Nile? You want a souvenir, help yourself.” She gestured expansively toward the outhouse. “Then get out of our yard or I’ll have the constable in.”

“I’m not a tourist, Mrs. Richardson. I’m a reporter for—”

“Morgan,” Ezra interrupted, all the humor fled from his tone.

“Just a second, Ez. Mrs. Richardson—”

“
Morgan
.”

The urgency in Ezra’s voice forced me around, to trade Mrs. Richardson’s annoyed stare for the scowling visage of the policeman standing at Ezra’s shoulder. If I’d wondered how policemen in London—especially Whitechapel—could maintain order without a gun, I didn’t need to wonder further. This fellow was big and burly enough to haul off a pubful of miscreants without even taking the shine off his buttons.

Whether he was bright enough to disbelieve the lie I intended to dish out, we were about to discover. But before I could offer my standard caught-trespassing excuse, Ezra spoke up. “Do forgive us, constable. You see, I’ve been taking my friend around town today, and Whitechapel’s been rather in the papers, and as he’s a reporter, well, you understand his interest. I hadn’t quite expected he’d be over the fence so quick,” Ezra added with a baleful look at me, “but then, he’s from America, and they’re rather excitable, you know.”

“Say no more,” the constable rumbled in a deep, sympathetic bass. “The tourists have been thick as fleas and far more trouble.” He nodded for Mrs. Richardson to come unlock the gate and, as she did so, he leaned over to talk confidentially to Ezra. “If I was you, sir, I’d get him in hand right off and trot him ’round to some proper place he’d fancy—the Tower, say. At any rate, don’t bring him back here.”

At his mention of the Tower, Ezra lost a little color, but managed a nod and a word of thanks as the constable stepped back and gestured for me to return to the other side of the gate. I was getting a little tired of being considered the idiot American, but I couldn’t deny I’d brought it on myself. I followed his orders, keeping my mouth shut only until we were around the corner and well out of earshot.

“Excitable?”

“Yes, rather like one of those—what do you call them? Jackrabbits?”

“You know, the Tower is still on my list of things to do in 1888,” I growled, futilely poking him in the ribs through the layers of shirt, vest, coat, and overcoat.

He caught my wrist and gave it a quick squeeze. “You will want to keep me in a cheerful frame of mind, I think, if you want a properly cast spell when Charles recovers a copy of the book for us.”

“Resorting to blackmail already?” I shook my head. “Be careful what you ask for. I might drag you into that church—” I nodded at the towering spire, “And into a dark corner to have my way with you.” I slowed to get a better look at the building. “Damn. You Brits can build churches like nothing back home.”

Stark white stone rose from the huddle of soot-blanketed houses to a crowning steeple that seemed to pierce the storm clouds overhead. It was a handsome church, in a sort of solemn way, impressive but not so inviting. The establishment right beside it, however, was another story. “Ten Bells?” There was something familiar in the name. “Want to get a bite to eat?” The church clock read six-thirty. No wonder I was so hungry.

“In there?”

“Why not?” I caught the wary look. “I think your reputation will survive.”

“It’s not my reputation I’m worried for,” he said as we moved toward a lit doorway that promised food, drink, and cover from the deepening chill in the air.

“Never been in a pub brawl?”

“Not that I recall. I daresay you have.”

“One or two.” The rain had started in earnest and we were not the only ones heading for shelter. In an atmosphere thick with smoke and noise, we found an unoccupied corner and I smoothed out my case file to add some notes to it. Sully would’ve shaken his head at the scant progress I’d made. It was sobering to realize another murder would soon follow the first two, and I could not remember the facts that might give me a way to prevent it. I couldn’t exactly confide in the police, even with information to back up my story. Like as not, they’d assume I had something to do with the murders and haul me in.

Ezra pulled me from my thoughts and directed my attention to a familiar face across the room. It took me a minute to recognize the fellow in the black coat and hat. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been dressed to beat the band, and now he looked as somber as an undertaker.

“Sid. What’s he doing here?”

“He may live hereabouts.”

“Yeah? You don’t think he’s just—how did he put it? Trolling for roses amid the trash? What makes you think he lives around here?”

“It isn’t obvious?”

“Isn’t what obvious?”

Ezra lowered his voice, even though there was no chance Sid could hear us from twenty feet away. “That he isn’t—well, a gentleman.”

I had to laugh. “You’re such a snob. Just because a guy isn’t born into wealth and packed off to Cambridge as soon as he can walk—”

“It’s more than that,” Ezra said, discomfort in the eyes that dropped to avoid mine. “It’s the manner in which he makes his living.”

“Which is?”

His gaze returned to my face, searching. “You don’t know?”

I was ready to kick him under the table. “I figured he got by the same as the rest of you rich kids, family wealth keeping you in tea and crumpets.”

“The money that keeps Sidney in tea and crumpets, as you say, doesn’t come from his family, whomever they may be.”

Then it dawned on me. “Oh, okay. Rents himself out, does he?”

The barmaid showed up, a momentary distraction providing greasy fish, steaming potatoes, and beer. I inspected the food after she’d gone, deemed it clean enough to be consumed, and picked up the conversation where we’d left off, though I knew Ezra wasn’t finding it agreeable. He was not much for gossip, but I gently coerced the details from him. Jem and Sid had met many months ago during a rowdy party at a private residence that was frequented for the sort of trysting they couldn’t get away with in more public venues. Sid had possessed what Ezra called a rougher edge back then, but he was a quick learner. Jem had cleaned him up and taught him to pass in more polite society. So the vulgar side I’d seen of Sid wasn’t the act; the fine clothes and polished accent were.

“You don’t really like Sid, do you?”

Ezra looked even more uncomfortable with that question. “Sidney’s a decent enough sort. I don’t think he can be good for Jem. Jem’s changed since Cambridge, but he’s seemed even worse lately.”

“Yeah? How?”

Ezra poked at the fish with a fork as he mulled over the question. “He’s courted Clara for the longest while, without any promises exchanged, and he finds even less contentment in his work. He’s terribly restless. Easily distracted and more morose than he once was. He will not talk of what troubles him, not with his father or brothers, nor with me.” He sighed. “We wish to help him, but he won’t allow it.”

Huh. “Ez, do you love him?”

Blue eyes met mine with utter directness. “I do indeed, as a friend, which he long ago accepted must always be the case.”

I felt relieved to hear it. I hadn’t thought Ezra had those kind of feelings for Jem Montague or for anyone. Of course, feelings of friendship could run pretty deep—and the men of Ezra’s era seemed open to letting those feelings show.

I could certainly read what he was feeling now—pure alarm. Sid must be on his way over. “Just remember, you weren’t born knowing which spoon to use, any more than he was.”

His gaze narrowed. “I am not a snob, Morgan Nash.”

“My dear boys!” And Sidney was upon us, ensconcing himself in the seat next to mine and leaning over the arm to wrap his around my shoulders. “Darling Morgan, you haven’t run away yet. I’m so glad. And you look so deliciously rumpled. What have you been up to? Now don’t tell. I shall guess. Rescuing Ezra from the devouring female of the species. Have I got it right?” A wicked grin flashed Ezra’s way, and I was amused as hell to see Ezra go red in the face.

“Ezra would never kiss and tell. Nor would I,” I added before Sidney could ask.

The sparkle in Sid’s eyes remained unvanquished. “I’ve heard the wedding is off. Have the two of you been disowned? I cannot believe you came all the way up for beer and potatoes.”

“We’re just sightseeing.” Which was for the most part true, since I hadn’t learned a damned thing new about the case.

Sidney patted the shoulder of my faded coat, a knowing glint in his eye. “I quite understand. Slumming has become an amusement, you know, what with the intrigues about Whitechapel these days. But do be careful. Even in those clothes, manners will tell.”

“The reason that constable didn’t arrest us on the spot,” Ezra noted.

I could see how a Victorian way of thinking might be difficult to avoid when you were Victorian. “So you don’t believe a gentleman could have committed these murders?”

“It seems unlikely,” Ezra said.

“Insanity and good breeding don’t mix?”

Ezra’s smile was more of a good-natured grimace. “If you’re going to accuse me again of being a snob—”