No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  “Well—” I begin, walking back to my chair. I clamp my hand over my mouth at the sound of two voices in the foyer and edge back to my former eavesdropping spot. “I think it’s someone from the Station,” I whisper. “Tanner maybe?” But the officers know well enough not to drop by without advance notice or dire cause. So, this is strange. “No. I don’t think it’s the sergeant.”

  Archer tilts his head a smidgen to one side, and I grin, recognizing the gesture. This kind of posturing translates the same in animals as it does with people. He plants both feet on the floor and leans forward.

  “Please,” Allen says, raising his voice. “If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll tell Arch— my … I’ll let the chief inspector know he has a visitor.”

  “Certainly,” the other person says. Though muffled, the voice still sounds so familiar. And I’m positive now that our guest is not one of the sergeants. He’s not a Wells Street Station officer at all.

  “Oh, yes. Sorry,” Allen says. There’s a short span of shuffling and rustling while Allen collects our visitor’s outer things. In the meantime, I tiptoe into the dining room.

  “Uh, there’s uh gentleman here to see you. Uh doctor,” Allen says. “Henry Flynn Ennis?” Under his breath, he adds, “But he looks a lot like Vale. In fact, so like him, Archer, it’s disturbing. The hair color, the bearing, his … sounds like him too. He’s much thinner, though, and bearded. Wears glasses, and about those, I—”

  “Mm. Go help River get in costume; she’s in there,” Archer interrupts. Just as he glances in my direction and turns away, I peek around the panel. “I’ll see to our visitor myself.”

  “I don’t know, Archer. Has she, uh, has she met him?” Allen ventures in a whisper.

  “No. Not yet. Not face to face.” Archer’s lips part at one corner. “Tsk. Ennis wouldn’t have come here,” he says, drawing out the watch in his waistcoat pocket. “It’s going on nine. Ennis’s reason for coming here so late must be urgent, we have to assume.”

  “Okay, but do you think it’s necessary? That she meet him, I mean?”

  “She’s my second, Allen, and she can’t avoid him forever,” Archer’s says, his tone stiff. “He lives in the neighborhood—has for the better part of a year now.”

  “All right then,” Allen says, still hesitating. “If you’re sure.” He then turns on his heel and walks toward me, drawing the pocket doors practically closed behind him. Through the six-inch gap, I glimpse my brother beckoning Henry Ennis into the room a few seconds later.

  “Inspector.”

  “Doctor,” Archer says bluntly, and as he shakes our guest’s hand, he flicks a stern look in my direction.

  “I apologize for visiting at such an hour.”

  Archer proffers Ennis a seat with his back to the dining room, but the alienist doesn’t sit right away. Instead, he folds his hands behind his back and turns toward the fireplace. Allen and I fall back from the opening and scoot along the outer wall, exiting into the kitchen. At the bidirectional hearth, I take a step to the right toward the short hallway leading into the butler’s pantry while Allen steps forward toward his favorite room technically still inside the house.

  “Through here?” he urges, pointing in the direction of the conservatory.

  “You’re just looking for an excuse to get your thrills, Bryce. Myself, I’d rather not risk being mangled by those stairs should it give up the ghost and take mine with it.”

  “You’re overreacting. The rungs just need to be hammered down.”

  I eye him. “And a few rusty steps replaced, the rails fastened more securely, and the whole thing bolted to the ground. Not to mention the issues with the catwalk.”

  “And that.”

  “You go have fun. I don’t need help getting dressed besides. I’ve mastered my art.”

  “It’ll go faster; I can set out your clothes and mix the glue while you work on your makeup.”

  I duck my head back into the dining room and angle for a view of Archer and Dr. Ennis through the crack between the partition doors. “I’m thinking of skipping the hassle altogether.” I never thought I’d be enumerating on the advantages of being a woman. But in a position like mine, one notices the glaring disadvantages men possess. It’s not as itchy or awkward a business for us females usually. The primary bane of my part-time male existence is hair—facial hair and pubic hair.

  Never had I needed to adjust my parts downstairs. Never was there anything to get tangled in the weeds, so to speak. Relax. I haven’t sprouted a penis. But when I first costumed myself in proper men’s clothes, both Allen and Archer advised I insert a prop at my groin (apparently I looked like an underdeveloped teenage boy in pants without it). When I added the bulge, I found myself needing to shift it often, and by “it” I mean my make-do stiff sinew as it’s called these days. Depending on how I’d wedged it, my tackle—another useful term—would either pinch delicate skin or pull at my pubs and then slip out of place. I couldn’t walk a block without having to duck into an alley or behind a bush to fix myself. Luckily this didn’t cause issue socially; men often disappear behind greenery to take care of business.

  Shortly thereafter, I discovered safety pins, which, let me just say, are not “safe” when situated in a place where they are liable to become unpinned. A painful lesson was learned, and I have since sewn in a roll of padding along one side and under the zipper. That problem is solved so long as nothing happens to the three pairs of trousers I possess.

  I suppose if I committed to being a man 100 percent of the time, my tribulations would dwindle away to nothing. I’d be used to it. But how can I when the yearning to step out of my ruse every day after work overwhelms my willpower, which I admit isn’t very strong. I cherish my undisturbed privacy too much and the freedom of a home life where I can be my uncomplicated female self.

  At the confused look on Allen’s face, I clarify: “By the time I’ve spent the minimum half-hour it takes to get into character, Dr. Ennis may be ready to leave or already gone. You can bet Archer isn’t stalling until I show up just to discuss whatever has brought the shrink here. And he’ll have to recap what I’ve missed anyway, assuming he even needs my input. Now go back in there … but after me. Offer them drinks or nuts or whatever, and on your way in, leave the panels more ajar than they are now. I’d do it myself, but I’m afraid Ennis will catch sight of me.”

  With that, I tiptoe back into the dining room and approach the narrow opening between the doors. The shrink is pacing, his hands folded behind his back, his chin tucked into his chest. I swat the air to get Archer’s attention. He flicks a glance my way, his eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second.

  “Ennis,” Archer says abruptly to distract the doctor.

  “Yes?”

  While the doctor is turned away, I mouth, “I’ll be here.” I cup a hand behind my ear and point at the ground. “Yeah?” I question in silence.

  Archer rubs his jaw and looks away. “Something to drink?” he asks Ennis.

  As if on cue, Allen elbows past me, widening my view of the conference at the same time. I peek back into the room, and Archer nods as though to acknowledge him; his eyes are on me, however.

  The heels of his polished shoes touching, Allen stares at the doctor’s profile, forgetting his purpose until Archer says, “Scotch, neat.”

  “Mm-hmm, sure,” Allen responds, his eyes still fixed on the psychologist. “And, um, and just tonic water for you, sir?” he asks, knowing Vale had not imbibed at all since his hijacking.

  Without glancing at our butler, the man says, “I’ll have the same as the inspector.”

  “Mm-hmm, all right,” he says, casting a glance at me before moving to the drinks cabinet in the room’s corner. He removes an empty decanter and holds it aloft. “It appears we’re out; it’ll just take me a minute.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ONCE ALLEN LEAVES, Dr. Ennis resumes, or I genuinely hear him for the first time. He’s recounting his purpose for visiting so late. “I’ve been
following his movements for a while now and have discovered Varga to be quite cunning.”

  Gaia, help me. I throw myself back against the wall. For reasons of self-preservation, I had all but convinced myself that, despite appearances, the alienist and the love of my life were really very different from one another. I hadn’t considered that anatomical likenesses could cause underlying similarities as well—for Henry Ennis sounds like Vale too.

  Regardless of what Archer thinks, I’m not ready to meet this man, not by a long stretch. With my breath trapped in the base of my throat and my ears ringing with the memories of my name on his tongue, I try to clear the fog in my head. I can’t swallow or hear anything for a long minute. Once recovered, I ease forward back to my post at the edge of the door panel.

  “He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Ennis says. “But for all my efforts, there is little point if it isn’t doing any good.”

  My eyes bore through the soft auburn locks curling around his collar at the nape of his neck, and my fingers tingle with the need to touch his hair, touch him. In an instant, my cheeks are aflame. Just then, Archer looks up at me, his mouth a severe line, and the color recedes from my face under his watch. Satisfied, my brother then leans forward, places his elbows on his knees, and refocuses his attention on Henry Ennis and his story. “I respect what you’re doing, doctor. Few take the time to understand the predicaments the women at Lily Grace’s, for example, face. And you do much more from what I hear.”

  “I appreciate you saying that, inspector. However, what I should have said is that my efforts are wasted if what has been going on is allowed to continue.”

  “Circling back then. What do you mean he’s ‘a wolf in sheep’s clothing’?”

  “From what I’ve gathered, Constantine Varga targets brothels; the expecting mothers there are easy victims.”

  “For what exactly?”

  “A woman’s future livelihood hangs in the balance if she were to become pregnant, the odds of which are high in such places.”

  “Mm. I get that.”

  “He convinces these women that their lives needn’t be turned upside down by consequences often resulting from their choice of employment.”

  “Choice has little to do with it.”

  “True. Anyway, he tells them he’ll make it worth their while if they give over their babies to him after they’re born.”

  “You’re saying he’s trafficking.”

  The shrink turns his head and, although I’d like to study his profile, I withdraw behind the panel again. “Yes, if by that you mean he’s coaxing the women into selling him their unborn children and then reselling the babes to gentry for a much higher profit.”

  Archer tepees his fingers under his chin for a second. “Well, if Dr. Varga is helping a mother-to-be deliver a healthy baby, and afterward, she willingly gives over her child, what you suspect the doctor of doing isn’t illegal, Ennis. He’s providing a service. In fact, it’s better than the accepted practice of baby farming. At least here, the process is being interceded by a trained physician. We have to hope Varga does it for more than the money, that he believes he’s doing good, such as optioning a better life for the infant and a less troublesome one for its mother. I suspect most children born into that environment are left to worse fates, foundling facilities, orphanages, and if they survive, workhouses eventually.”

  After a moment of prolonged silence, Henry Ennis says, “Can we know for certain that the exchange is consensual is my question.”

  “All that’s required is the mother’s or guardian’s word, so yes. Outside of that, we depend upon evidence that an actual crime has taken place.”

  “You’ll do nothing?” the doctor asks.

  “Unless he’s harming anyone or is involved in some criminal activity such as kidnapping, I can’t commit station resources based just on what you’ve told me, Dr. Ennis.” Archer pauses. “Provide me the tiniest shred of proof of violence or wrongdoing, and on very little I’d agree to look into this.”

  The psychologist bows his head for a prolonged time before looking up again. “Have I mentioned that Mrs. Ennis and her babe died in childbirth, inspector?”

  Archer studies the doctor with a piercing glare and then looks down at the floor. Again, he steeples his fingers over his lips, but I hear him say, “You’re referring to your wife and your child, I take it? Not your sister-in-law and her baby?”

  “Oh! My wife. Yes, I meant my wife and child,” the shrink replies. “I suppose that answers my question.” After hesitating briefly, he continues. “Well, Delia was a fortunate woman in that she was astonishingly healthy. She rarely fell ill, slept each night soundly, was always in a dependably cheerful mood, and never suffered from the typical issues that plague most women.” The steady emptiness in his voice inspires me to pity him for his loss and wonder at his ability to detach himself so coolly. “We were married for three years. In all that time, she did not complain once of so much as a headache. Even her pregnancy might well have been called easy compared to that of other expectant mothers. And yet, when the time came to give birth, she and our child died after only six hours of labor, a trifle I am told.”

  “It’s a dangerous and unpredictable time,” Archer says, glancing at me, both of us likely thinking of Martin, who had lost his wife and daughter in childbirth.

  “Yes.” A static silence hangs in the air. “Constantine Varga was her birthing physician.”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Inspector, I believe it wasn’t my child who died. Furthermore, I think Delia was murdered,” he says with more urgency than he’s so far expressed.

  “That’s quite an accusation,” Archer says, reclining back in his chair.

  “I know. Unfortunately, I don’t have enough to offer in the way of proof on that score either. Simply put, I’ve reached a dead end with my investigation and was hoping you’d take a chance based on my say-so. The Boston police will vouch for me.”

  “I’m afraid say-so doesn’t work in reversed circumstances.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The police might seek out your expertise, doctor, but we’re not private inquiry agents you can hire. And we have plenty to keep us busy without looking for crimes we don’t know occurred. So, again, I’ll need a clue backed by some bit of evidence to proceed, however small.”

  Dr. Ennis nods his head, and whatever speech he has planned is put on hold when Allen reenters. Avoiding Archer’s outstretched hand, he snaps the linen tea towel dangling from the pocket of his pristine black coat and dusts the surface of the side table before transferring the tumbler from the tray onto it. One would think Allen had been Victorian born and into domestic service. As though in slow motion, he does the same for the other libation, and then he moves to the opposite side of the room for a better view of Archer’s guest.

  “Stella’s work not meeting with your approval, Allen? Plan on taking over as housekeeper, are you?”

  While eyeing Henry Ennis, he repositions an errant pillow on the bench seat by the window, and fluffs and pulls on the edge of another, a round button-tufted one, as if it has corners. “It’s fine. I thought I’d quietly tidy up while I’m—”

  “Allen.”

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve probably noticed the room’s still in use. So, are you absolutely sure you want to put our bad manners on display just now?”

  “Oh, uh, I’ll be in the next room then, should you or … need, uh, require anything.”

  Archer says, “Sorry about that; Allen is still learning how we do things around here.” He squints at me, and I shrug. Who can blame him? Although Vale was always clean-shaven, his hair cut much shorter, and he weighed about twenty pounds more than the lean man in the other room, they were otherwise the same height and build with similar overall coloring. And as though a physical feature, the most startling parallel has to do with their bearing—erect and at the same time relaxed, confident and yet unimposing, inspiring of respect and at once
affable.

  “You okay?” Allen whispers in my ear, “Archer should ask him to leave.” A tendril of butterscotch hair brushes against my cheek. Nowadays Allen smells of shoe polish, something like motor oil, beeswax, and lemon zest, where before he smelled like the summer sun and dry grass, though he spent most of his time indoors. “This isn’t right,” he says.

  “For Christ’s sake, he’s not him,” I breathe back. Although Allen is over us, that he and I ended because Vale and I started still nags him, I know. And I suppose this dynamic requires him to act like an overprotective ex-boyfriend/brother now and again. I have more brothers than I know what to do with, but Allen picks up the slack where Archer and Quinn fold.

  “It’s freaky.”

  I push him away and clamp my hand over his mouth. “Shush!” I mouth. “This is police business,” I add in a virtually soundless whisper. We both fall silent when the shrink speaks again.

  “I understand. Sometimes, the help notices more than we do. … I might as well start there. It was one of my servants who first drew …” Dr. Ennis is saying.

  “He even sounds like Vale,” Allen mumbles, his lips grazing my earlobe and his hair tickling my neck.

  “So you said.” I swat him away before the sensation makes me sneeze.

  “What? You don’t think so?”

  Instead of denying the fact, I say, “Hm, let’s see now. If he sounded different, it wouldn’t be so weird, right? Shut it, Bryce.” I could add but don’t that this man’s tone thoroughly lacks Vale’s dynamic essence. Dr. Ennis is a reserved, too formal person; he’d gotten the short stick when they were passing out doppelganger traits.

  I’m sure the language, which is much more correct nowadays, has something to do with it. Before Vale, I was oblivious about life. I wasn’t unhappy, just driven and purposeful like my brothers, a St. Clair. In the two short years we were together, I learned that quite a lot could be said for enjoying the moment and allowing life to happen.

  “You smell nice, River. Lavender, mint, and what I want to say dew smells like,” Allen declares in a hushed tone. “Sometimes, I forget that you’re still you under your usual getup.”