Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (42 page)

“They’re all over the place. Still hunting the Ripper,” she explained.
Pity they never catch him.

“I’ve read about all this and seen some of the photographs, but nothing prepares you for the reality,” he mused, turning in a full circle to get a panorama.

“No. Nothing can.”

“How do you cope?” he asked suddenly. “One moment you’re
there,
and then you’re here. There is such a difference between the two worlds.”

She wondered if he’d understand. “That’s part of the thrill. Here you have to live by your wits. At home…” She shrugged. “I just run afoul of the rules all the time.”

He turned cocky. “So do I. I’m a wanted man now,” he said in a low voice. “I find that amusing.”

Until they throw your butt in jail.

A voice called out to them. Cynda turned, knowing it sounded familiar. A bootblack. A young one.

“Miss Jacynda!” the boy cried. He grinned widely as she worked on his name. His face was grubby, like most of them, but there was a brightness to his eyes that she recognized.

“Hello there, how have you been?” she said, buying time.
A young kid about twelve.
As he moved forward toward her, she noted the limp. That helped.

“I’m right fine.” He peered up at her quizzically. “How ’bout you?”

“I’m much better.” He opened his mouth to help her out, but she held up a hand. “Let me do it.”
Yes, that’s it.
“David Edward Butler.”

He cheered and broke out in a smile. “You remember me! You didn’t the last time.” Then he gave Morrisey a curious look. “Who’s this gent?”

“Davy, this is Mr. Morrisey.”

“Ah, yes.” Morrisey offered a hand, and the two of them shook. “You are the son of Dr. Montrose’s housekeeper.”

“Right you are! Pleased to meet you, sir.” Then David peered down at her companion’s boots and shook his head in mock despair. Cynda winked at her boss and he took the hint. As Davy applied his talents, she used the opportunity to solicit the kid’s street knowledge

“We’re looking for a missing Irish girl. About sixteen or so. Her name’s Fiona. We think she’s somewhere in Whitechapel.”

“What does she look like?” Davy asked, applying the polish.

Cynda did as best she could with what Flaherty had told her.

Davy’s eyes rose from his work. “Lots of Irish girls in Whitechapel.”

“I know. I just thought I’d tell you in case you hear something.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Do it carefully,” Morrisey warned. “There are people who won’t want her found. It might be dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful.” Davy signaled for him to switch feet. Then he looked up again, frowning. “You sound posh, but your clothes aren’t. You slummin’?”

It was Morrisey’s turn to wink. “Something like that.”

“Ah, well, that’s all right then.” The kid went back to work with a vengeance.

A block after they left Davy behind, Cynda pointed toward a puddle of muddy water. Before she could explain, Morrisey walked through it to obscure some of the bootblack’s handiwork, which was clearly out of place with his garb.

“Quick study,” the spider observed from her shoulder.

Too quick.
Those kind usually get in trouble.

It took her some time to relax. It was bad enough she was reacquainting herself with 1888, but having a beginner in tow just made it harder. She fretted about every seedy character who eyed them, the thick traffic, the pickpockets.

“I’m fine,” her companion said. “Stop worrying.”

“I’ll try.”

With each pub, dining hall, and street market they visited, she felt herself slipping back into the rhythm of Victorian London. It felt right. Every now and then she’d whisper some bit of advice to Morrisey and he’d nod in response. He rarely asked questions, but his attention remained sharply focused. They’d chatted with newspaper boys, costermongers, a couple of whores, a butcher, and a girl selling milk. Morrisey hadn’t complained once, not about the throng of people or their lack of bathing habits. By now he should be begging for fresh air.

Points for style, boss.

The strangest thing was the contented look on his face. She hadn’t expected that. “You act as if you’re enjoying yourself,” she observed.

He offered his arm and she took it, as would be expected. “I am, in many ways.”

“Why?”

“At home, I’m too well known. I’m stared at all the time if I go out in public. It’s one of the reasons I keep out of view.” His expression transformed into a genuine smile. “Here, I’m no one. It’s refreshing.”

She hadn’t ever thought of that. “It must be weird to be so famous.”

“It’s a double-edged sword. I see why Harter hides himself away like this. It has a certain appeal.”

Along with some downsides.

Not wanting to ruin his good mood, she said, “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint. Watch what you say. The pub will be crowded.”

The Ten Bells was packed, as usual. After muscling their way to the bar and claiming their drinks, they found a spot in the back of the room.

“Right friendly place, ain’t it?” Morrisey remarked. His thick working-class accent sounded natural. He had the advantage on her: he was a native.

“Not hearin’ much that helps us, though,” she replied, trying to match him.

“Well, at least the ale’s worth the time,” he said, taking another sip and smacking his lips.

She nearly burst out laughing. If the Vid-News reporters ever caught wind of T.E. Morrisey slumming in 1888 London, their readership would double.

“Is it always like this?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Friday’s a holiday. They want to get a head start on the drinkin’.”

“No, no, he’s good for it!” someone shouted above the din. “They’re all crooked, those rozzers. Don’t want to pay for a leg-over like the rest of us.”

That generated raucous laughter. To her astonishment, Morrisey called out, “Why pay for what ya get for free?”

Before she could issue a warning, a man answered, “Right ya are, sor. That’s what I’m sayin’.”

“I’m sure I saw him with old Polly,” another said. “He’s got to be the Ripper. How else could he get away with it?”

“I bet he was goin’ to do that posh bint like the others, but he heard ’em comin’ and ran away,” a woman said.

“Not that rozzer,” a young woman piped up. “He’s a good sort. He’d slip me tuppence every now and then, tell me to get home safe.”

“Oh, I’d slip ya brass too, but you’d have to earn it,” a man said, elbowing her.

“I know yer kind, Tom. Yer all talk.” More rude laughter.

“I heard someone spoke up for him. Some Irish girl,” another man added. “She’s lucky Flaherty gave the word or she’d be payin’ for that dearly.”

“Yes, she was lucky,” the woman said pensively. “But it was the right thing to do.”

“I wouldn’t do that for no rozzer,” the one called Tom shot back. “Ya heart’s too big, Mary. Ya can’t see the truth for what it is.”

Mary?

Cynda thought she’d seen her before. Young woman. Red shawl, no hat. Some night in… She couldn’t quite remember. It had been in front of the Ten Bells. Then it fell into place.

“What’s wrong?” Morrisey asked.

“Nothin’. Done with yer pint?” she asked, working hard to keep in character.

He took a final sip. “Ready.”

Once they were back on the street, she leaned close and delivered him the stock lecture about blending in.

“I think I did rather well,” he said peevishly.

“You did, but you’re always supposed to be part of the scenery.”

“If I remember, you’re not very good at that, either. Is that why you dragged me out of there?”

“Part of it.” Cynda took his arm. “The other part’s the downside of being a Rover.”

“Which is?”

“Seeing people who are going to die.”

“They’re all dead, Jacynda,” he replied gently.

“Yes, but I know
how
she dies, when…where.”
Every damned detail.

Morrisey looked puzzled. “Who are you talking about?”

“Mary Jane Kelly. She was the woman in the pub talking about how good Keats was to her.” Cynda watched as the name hit home.

“The Ripper’s next victim,” he murmured.

“This Friday, early in the morning, in Dorset Street.” She’d not taken him there during their tour. That would have been ghoulish.

He looked away, his mind somewhere else. If he’d seen the crime scene photos…

You shouldn’t have to face this.

It was one of the hardest things that a Rover had to handle: everyone you met was dead. Some of them would haunt you forever. For her, it was Kate Eddowes: laughing, playfully putting her hand on the shoulder of the man who’d mutilate her in Mitre Square a few minutes later.

“Look, you can’t stay here,” she pleaded. “We’ll find somewhere else for you to go—”

“No,” he retorted, “I
need
to be here.” His voice went rough. “This…” he said, gesturing around him at the teeming streets, “is real. I made this possible. Why shouldn’t I see the human consequences of my so-called genius?”

“Only if you can handle it. Not everyone can.”

Silence. He took her arm again. “Where to now?” he asked, his tone flat. That told her the subject was closed.

“I want to check in a few more places and see if we can pick up any word of Fiona.”

He fell in step next to her, face somber. “I don’t understand. You haven’t asked anyone about the missing girl. How can you find her that way?”

“Sometimes, all you have to do is listen.”

~••~••~••~

Wednesday, 7 November, 1888

Rose Dining Room

To Satyr’s relief, Tobin was not present at the breakfast meeting. That would have generated a major incident, and he wasn’t ready to eliminate his rival. The Ascendant was just sitting down when he arrived.

“Good morning, sir,” Satyr greeted pleasantly, laying his hat and coat aside. He put on his best manners, hoping to keep his superior open and sociable. Perhaps then he could begin to figure out what was going on.

“Mr. S.,” was the cool reply. The Ascendant opened up his newspaper. “What is this? A stay of execution? What in heaven for?”

“New evidence, I gather,” Satyr said. The news had pleased him immensely. It had never been his intention to ensnare a Scotland Yard detective in Nicci’s murder. He’d just employed Keats’ form because it seemed the best way to obtain the information he wanted.

Satyr sat with a flourish and then rang the bell. Two waiters came through the door immediately, hands cradling plates and bowls filled with hot food.

His superior waited until the servers were done and the door closed behind them before he replied. He dropped the paper on the table. “Well, won’t matter anyway.”

“Why not?” Satyr asked, picking up the lid to the sausages. The scent was erotic.

“Soon a man’s guilt or innocence will be weighed by a higher authority than the courts.”

“How soon?”

“Lord Mayor’s Day.”

From Satyr’s perspective, it was a day best kept to one’s rooms, as getting around the streets of London was penance. Give the citizenry a day off and they shamelessly exploited it.

“Is that when you’re delivering the explosives?” he asked pointedly.

The Ascendant gave him a sidelong glance. “I have a couple of tasks for you and I want them performed promptly, without error, unlike some of your previous efforts.”

Satyr halted mid-chew and then washed the bite of egg down with a sip of tea. “Such as?” he asked.

“Kill the Fenian.”

“You should note that Flaherty’s death will risk fanning Irish anger.”

“Then make it look like a Jew did it. That way the Irish will take their anger out on the Hebrews, not us. And remove his daughter, as well,” the Ascendant added, daintily buttering a piece of toast. “She is superfluous at this point.”

Professionals do not kill innocents.

The Ascendant noted his silence. “If you do not wish to follow my orders, I will give Tobin the job, at which time you will no longer be considered Lead Assassin. Do you understand?”

Satyr had seen this one coming. “Tobin is not a Virtual. Tradition requires that he be one to replace me.”

“If I say that Tobin will become Lead Assassin, then he will.”

So that’s the way you’re playing it.
He debated whether he should tell his superior about Miss Lassiter, then thought better of it. The Ascendant would just dispatch Tobin again and perhaps the fellow might get lucky the second time around.