Downtime (32 page)

“You have no idea how menacing I can be. Especially to the deserving.” I looked at Henry. “If you’ve come to apologize, though, I’d love to hear it.”

Henry frowned again, but with none of the usual rancor, and addressed Ezra. “I do apologize, Ezra, for the insinuations I made earlier.” He curled a hand over the bed rail and spoke softly. “Would you….” he began and then hesitated.

Ezra seemed as bemused by this side of Henry as I was. “Dear fellow, what is it?”

“Could you just tell me….” He clung to the rail with both hands as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling to his knees to beg. “What does she say?”

It looked like I wasn’t the only one who needed to hear from the dear departed. As Ezra got up and pulled on a nightshirt, I put on my jeans and headed for the door. I figured Henry would prefer it if I left them to talk. I didn’t want to be there and he wouldn’t want me there if he started bawling. I made myself comfortable in the parlor, dozing until I heard footsteps and figured Henry was off to bed. I slipped back upstairs to find Ez alone and nearly asleep. I dropped on top of him and kissed the back of his neck. “Henry okay?”

Ezra murmured agreeably and rolled over to press against me, close and warm. “He will be.” He kissed my jaw with drowsy affection. “Did you have a bite?”

“No, but I’d like to.” I brushed my lips along his hairline, then bent my head to cover his mouth with a soft but probing kiss. As sleepy as he was, he couldn’t seem to resist it any more than I could. What started out tender turned heated, and when we finally did get back to sleep, it was past midnight. I didn’t expect I’d be up bright and early, myself, but I woke just after nine. I left a soundly sleeping Ezra a note with deliberately vague information as to my whereabouts, borrowed a handful of coins, and headed back to Whitechapel with a grim location in mind.

I’d put up with some primitive conditions so far, but nothing that compared with the Whitechapel morgue. The smell alone had me lingering in the doorway for a good five minutes, debating whether I could stand to be in any closer proximity to the bodies for the time it took to examine them for evidence—and whether I was willing to lose my breakfast in the process. But that five minutes gave me enough time to become semi-accustomed to the reeking interior of the place and I went in, hoping this was all going to prove worth the trouble.

I’d never been much of an actor but I somehow managed to persuade an attendant that I was a grieving relative of the recently deceased and he took me in to the table where the remains lay—not, unfortunately, on ice but at least decently covered. I set to work, wanting to finish as fast as possible, and gathered a set of prints to eliminate hers as a match for the one on my tin. I didn’t have the tools to lift latent prints off her skin, but I did manage to get a sample of nail clippings before a man in a blood-stained apron came in and asked if I had come to identify the body.

I shook my head. “Sorry, no. I don’t recognize her.” I tucked the evidence bags away in my pocket and left before I aroused any more suspicion than was already glimmering in the man’s eyes. Back outside, I sucked in a lungful of fresh—well, fresher—air and hailed a cab to take me to St. George’s Mortuary, where the other victim, Elizabeth Stride, had been moved. I was stopped there by the crowd of doctors apparently in the middle of an autopsy. A policeman led a weeping woman past me, and I caught soft words in Swedish. Remembering the Swedish Ezra had used, I wondered whether or not the Swedish community in London was close-knit enough to provide me with some background on the deceased. I still had the unshakable feeling the Ripper was well-known to the women he murdered.

I made my way to the Swedish Lutheran church in Prince’s Square. There, I talked to a clerk who told me Elizabeth Stride had come to the church for financial help when sewing and cleaning hadn’t been enough to live on. I felt sure it was the case with all the murdered women, that they exhausted every resource available to them before turning to prostitution to survive. Elizabeth had been as painfully poor and desperate as the rest. The clerk knew nothing of her more recent history, not even where she had been living the past couple of years. The only thing he could recall offhand was the name of a shopkeeper who had some work for the deceased. But he had no idea whether she’d ever looked up the shopkeeper. It would probably be a dead-end and I’d have to hunt up friends and relatives another way.

But for now, the investigation would be sidetracked—because I was about to get the lecture of the season, if the sight of Ezra waiting just across the road was any indication.

I summoned
my most ingenuous grin as I crossed the street and Ezra met me at the curb. He didn’t look pissed, but the relentlessly assessing gaze was somehow worse. That sort of patience with my foibles was not something I was used to.

“I suppose I should be grateful to you for sparing me the trip to the morgue,” he said finally. “But for now, I can only manage to suppress a fervent desire to box your ears soundly for scaring me.”

That was reasonable. “I’m sorry.” And unlike the millions of times I’d said those words to Faulkner, I meant them.

It brought a reluctant smile to his lips. “Never mind. I couldn’t lie about in the hammock all afternoon, knowing you were wandering Whitechapel. Besides, it looked like rain.”

He was right about that. The skies were threatening a deluge. But he had come prepared, so we went back to the crime scene in Berner Street to see if there was anything left.

There wasn’t. It had been cleaned up; not thoroughly, but just enough so that any evidence left was worthless. It astonished me that the Ripper hadn’t been captured in the act of killing Elizabeth Stride. He had been interrupted just after cutting her throat. Realizing he was in danger of being apprehended, he’d taken off down the only route available to him.

I followed it and Ezra trailed behind. It occurred to me that he was way too quiet—and that he had been for a while. I threw a glance over my shoulder. “Seeing anything?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Ezra, everything you see is out of the ordinary. What’s bothering you?”

He tapped a cobblestone with his walking stick. “Your Mr. Sullivan,” he said at last. “He’s come back.”

“Yeah? He helped you track me down today,” I said in sudden realization.

“Yes.” Ezra tucked the walking stick under his arm and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He stared up the windowless stretch of brick wall and clearing his throat in a casual way, added, “He’s been back rather longer than that. Since late Saturday, to be precise.”

I looked at him curiously. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“He wants you to find your way home.” His gaze still avoided mine. “I must confess some reluctance to see you go so soon.”

As he leaned back against the bricks, I joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder. “Sooner or later, I’ll have to go. I shouldn’t be here and God knows what damage I’ve already done. You know that. You’ve always known.”

“I have,” he said, head bobbing in an apologetic nod. “And I should have told you he was back. I knew you were concerned for him.”

I gave his wrist a squeeze. “Guess we’ve complicated things but good.”

“If you’re meaning to suggest moving back to Derry’s room, please don’t.”

“I don’t think sleeping in separate beds will keep us apart,” I observed with a faint grin. Only a hundred years would accomplish that. The thought gave me a lonely feeling. But I’d gotten over guys before. Whether we were together or apart, the infatuation would burn itself out in due time. If I kept reminding myself of that, I’d get through it. I was a little more worried at the moment how Ezra would. “You okay?”

He smiled. “You’ve been a revelation for me, Morgan. If this is to end tomorrow, I shall not have any regrets.”

I leaned over to give him a peck on the cheek and he suddenly laughed. “Your Mr. Sullivan asserts he cannot seem to evade this—ah—bullshit, no matter where he goes.”

A slew of memories caught me off guard, of the way Sully would always groan and gripe whenever he got an eyeful of my greetings or good-byes with various boyfriends. I leaned back against the wall and laughed. “Hey, Sully. You better get used to it or they’ll be sending you back down to live that big gay romance I always warned you about.”

Ezra’s eyes widened, not at what I said but apparently at Sully’s response. “I do not believe I care to repeat that.”

“I’ll bet.” I grinned. “Sul, if you want me to get back home, tell us where the hell the book went.”

“He wishes to know if you think he knows everything,” Ezra relayed with the arch of an eyebrow.

I chuckled. “He sure thought he did while he was down here. What about this case? The Ripper?”

“He says—” Ezra frowned. “It’s irrelevant.”

“What? Like hell it is. Are you sure you’re talking to Sully, because he wouldn’t call a murder investigation irrelevant.”

“He says it’s irrelevant because you’re not going to stop him. You can’t stop him or you’ll change history.” Ezra seemed as confused as I felt. He shook his head. “I don’t understand….” He seemed to be talking to Sully. After a moment, his expression cleared. “It isn’t why you’re here, he says.”

“Not why….” I sputtered in disgust. “Okay, then why the hell am I here?”

“Why indeed.” His lips twitched with the hint of a smile. “Perhaps a holiday?”

I snorted. “Don’t get me wrong. You’ve made this place pretty damned tolerable. But a holiday, it ain’t. Sully, I could use a little help here. I’ve got no equipment, no experienced backup, not a goddamned thing—”

“Forget about the Ripper,” Ezra said, with the flavor of Sully’s world-weary patience in his voice. “Find the book.”

“We’re working on that,” I said. “We’ve got a pair of occult kooks from psychicland looking for it and if they can’t find it, I’m fucked. Why won’t you help me out?”

Ezra exhaled a tired sigh. “He says he hasn’t fought your battles for you since your father died and he’s not about to begin now.”

“What battle? This is just another case. We were partners, Sully. We worked together, remember?”

“This isn’t about the case,” Ezra said softly. “The case is—”

“Irrelevant,” I spat out. “You know what? You can tell Sully or whoever it is that I’m here in fucking 1888 and unless he’s got a way to get me home this minute, I’m working the case that’s here.”

The rain started, hard, and I glowered at a sky that had gone as dark and grim as the buildings around us. Too annoyed to stand still, I took off at a fast walk and kept it fast despite the cold wind in my face trying to slow me down.

“Morgan, for heaven’s sake.” The black dome of Ezra’s umbrella floated overhead, thwarting the stinging rain, and an arm slipped around mine. “Inviting pneumonia will assuredly put an end to your investigations.”

“Is he gone?” My voice was a harsh rasp and I sucked in a breath, trying to put a lid on my anger and frustration. Yeah, catching Jack would be changing history—for the better. I didn’t get why Sully didn’t see that.

Ezra caught my hand in a warm grip. “He’s gone. I imagine he felt he couldn’t do any more while you were angry.”

“Damn right I’m angry,” I muttered.

Affection flashed in his eyes. “Tea,” he said decidedly. “And a fire, if we can find one.” He pulled me along and I let him, too preoccupied with trying to get my bearings all over again. I didn’t think Sully’s attitude was just about me getting home as fast as possible to nail Leonard Gladstell. Maybe he thought I’d get hurt or killed, hunting down the Ripper. Or maybe he really was worried about the effect on history. Still, it bugged the hell out of me. Sully had always believed my dedication was an asset to the Bureau. Why he wanted me to give up on a case like this, I couldn’t figure out.

Ezra found a coffee house and, over tea and sandwiches, listened as I grumbled. Expecting him to side with Sully, I was surprised when he suggested we investigate a little more before nightfall. “We might hunt up that shopkeep your clerk mentioned. Perhaps she knew something of Miss Stride’s habits and can direct us to others who may know more.” He finger-combed his damp hair off his brow and poured another cup of tea. “We can go ’round to bookshops as well, if you like.”

I wanted to slide around to his side of the table and kiss him hard. Instead I kicked him gently. “Stop feeling guilty about Sully. Hell, you’re only human.”

I had to wonder if I would really linger, once the book was found. Even the draw of nailing the Ripper might not be enough to keep me when I had the way home in my hands. Though my homesickness had been dulled by the events of the past few days, it surged now and then into painful yearning. I missed the comforts and conveniences and, even more, the familiarity of my own life.

Still, the thought of leaving this cold case uncracked bothered me. And saying good-bye to Ezra—I didn’t dwell on that at all.

The next morning, I headed out to the inquest for Elizabeth Stride, figuring if the police weren’t going to work with me, I might as well try to work with them. Gathering the names of witnesses and relatives at the inquest was a good start. Ezra tagged along with me and when the inquest ended, we came home to an altogether different sort of horror. Derry had finagled tickets to the opera for Kathleen, to, I figured, pay her back for not kicking us all out days ago. I’d never sat through an opera and that’s just how I wanted to keep it. But everyone else seemed delighted by the prospect, Ezra included.

Resigned to my fate, I spent Wednesday in the guise of silent partner to Detective Glacenbie, who went reluctantly along with my plan in order to question witnesses and gather more comparison prints. A fog had set in by the time we returned to the house to bathe and dress. I didn’t hold out much hope that the evening would do anything but put me to sleep, but it started out portentously enough with a crowd outside the Savoy buzzing about as if they could not bear the anticipation. But it wasn’t the opera that had them all in a titter. Someone armed with colored chalk had brought the Ripper’s handiwork to life in gruesome detail on the sidewalk. The crowd lingered over it with the same morbid fascination I was used to seeing back in my own time. People never changed.

I heard Ezra’s whispered, “Dear God,” and I nodded.

“Bad as the tabloids. Let’s spare the ladies, shall we?” I intercepted Kathleen and Hannah and, offering each an arm, headed for the theater entrance before either of them could get an eyeful of something that would spoil their evening. Kathleen looked at me in mute concern and I shook my head, hoping she’d accept that I couldn’t tell her anything in front of Hannah. But Hannah, in her crisp white dress and new boots, copper hair beribboned and falling sleekly down her back, paid no attention to our exchange. Kathleen had transformed her from cinder girl to princess, and I think she had enjoyed the process as much as Hannah. I knew it wasn’t the new dress alone that had Hannah beaming like a carefree kid.