No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  “I told Allen Monday. … What in tarnation is it?” I ask, doing the same as Archer, shoving a particularly suspect gelatinous object to the side.

  “I believe it’s called mock turtle soup.”

  “It’s disgusting. I can’t eat this slop.”

  “Where exactly do you get the recipes for Mrs. Cook?” Archer asks Quinn, but our one-track-minded brother is still on the previous topic.

  “I believe it’s a weathervane, although it also resembles the hall light fixture. I’m not certain where it came from yet. It could have flown out of one of the windows when they burst—my first guess is the attic window considering where you saw it, River, and we found it. But the window in question wasn’t completely shattered.”

  “Quinn.”

  “I will have to consider other possible trajectories. There was quite a lot of debris strewn over the lawn. I identified a part of the salon sofa, several chairs, a wall sconce, which I believe came from the staircase, books, even ceramic tiles and scraps of the tin ceiling …”

  Archer snaps his fingers in front of Quinn’s eyes over his plate.

  “There were some meat pies in the pantry earlier if someone wants to grab those. I’m going to raid the cellar,” I announce, scooting out of my seat.

  “Do you pay attention to the recipes you provide Mrs. Cook? And who eats this?” Archer asks, pointing at the fishy relish with a scowl.

  Halfway down the cellar stairs, I hear Quinn reply, “I have shown Allen how to input them. Then Mrs. Cook calculates if the meal is nutritionally balanced.”

  By the time I return, Archer has dished out a slice of pie and a side of herb-roasted potatoes and greens for each of us. I deposit a good-sized wedge of cheese, a bowl of cherry tomatoes, and three bottles of beer in the center of the table where the soup tureen and condiment bowl were.

  Quinn resumes without a hitch. “What puzzles me is that there is a large bubble in the iron, and the whole thing is so severely misshapen and twisted that at first, I could not fathom what it was. Of course, it’s scorched like I’d have expected. But a house fire, no matter how hot it burns, would not cause cast iron to bulge and curl that way, especially not if it was blown out of a window. The only explanation that occurs to me is it was somehow directly struck by lightning. And there wasn’t one on the house, a weathervane—”

  “Marlowe found it in the basement and had it installed the last week of September,” Archer says, going absolutely still as soon as the words are out, a speared potato poised midair an inch from his lips.

  Archer has had the same disquieting thought as me: If Quinn determines how we got here, he’s one step closer to figuring out how we get back.

  Quinn’s eyes light up; he drops his fork on his plate with a clang and makes for an abrupt exit.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I snap missishly. “You’ll sit here and eat until your plate is empty. And tomorrow, you will go out and say ‘hello’ to the big gold ball in the sky! … By Gaia, I think we’re going to have to get him a nanny, Archer.”

  “I’m going to ask you to stop, Quinn,” Archer says, setting his fork down gently. “We’ve talked about this. I understand you’re curious. But River and I are not, not at all. You understand?”

  Well, I’m not, not curious, I think but don’t mention.

  His eyes shining, Quinn says, “You both have too much faith in my abilities and too little in what humanity is left of me.” He looks from me to Archer, then back at me. “I am what I am, but Reid was my brother, and Marlowe was my father too.” The muscles around his mouth and eyes go taut. He shakes his head as if to dislodge a memory none of us have to try too hard to imagine.

  “Even if I had such ambitions, it would still be impossible. It would take more than my ingenuity to make Perpetua functional, Archer,” he says steadily. “The components are either too damaged, or they are inaccessible. The mechanism in the basement, the infrastructure woven through the walls and floors, and the mangled piece of iron we have just uncovered are beyond repair. So, we have nothing to fear. I simply want to know what makes her tick and how.”

  Needless to say, Quinn gave no promise only reassurance. After dinner, he excused himself to re-investigate the weathervane. And Archer and I again walked across the foyer back to the library.

  Taking my previous seat on the sofa, I pretzel my legs under me and say, “I know that whatever is going on with the Days and Lynchs is serious business, but also talking about the case might actually be a reprieve from the rest of this week. You probably don’t have any more to go on, though, do you?”

  “Not much, but some. Before we left the Station, I had a word with Tanner.”

  “I thought you sent him to surveil the Lynchs’ place.”

  “I did. But his mother came down with something, and he sent Neumann to keep watch this evening instead. Anyway, he saw Olive Marsh coming out of the house around three-thirtyish with—”

  “Her husband was the worst kind of creep, but that’s the shortest mourning period I’ve ever heard of. And today is Wednesday. The sergeants said she works at the Lynchs’ on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

  “Mm. And to add to that, she was seen leaving with a woman we think is Hester Robinson, her friend the maid who’s been visiting her and keeping her up to speed on household gossip.”

  “It might not be a bad idea to have Olive Marsh back in and Hester Robinson too.”

  “If Vale is on the right track with this kidnapping idea, I don’t want us barging in with a battering ram and then stomping around leaving muddy footprints everywhere. Not just yet.”

  “Isn’t that what Theo’s doing, though? I mean Vale also suspects Dr. Varga’s involvement.” I wonder if he’s taken to his new profession. He said he’d been given back his life and then changed the wording to “a life.” During our work meeting, he seemed to be enjoying his new identity.

  “The thing with Varga has gone on a long time, several years. And still, for all the mystery surrounding him, everything we’ve heard is hearsay. He hasn’t actually done anything illegal.”

  “I agree with Vale the shrink in one respect. There’s something not quite right about the physician. Pregnancy isn’t a maybe kind of thing, not after the first trimester, even for these doctors. Speaking of Birdie Day, were you serious?”

  “About?”

  “That the Days believed it was a miracle birth?”

  Victorian society is oddly devout, god-fearing, and superstitious. Hence, Theo’s and Tanner’s iffy reaction to our irreverent humor this afternoon and Bert Harris’s belief in my ability to cast curses on people.

  “According to Tanner, Jed Day acted as though the truth was plain. Said, ‘I am unworthy, and yet, I was blessed.’ That his wife had brought a ‘child of God’ into the world as ‘her last sacrifice.’”

  “Good Lord,” I say, using one of Kate’s favored phrases.

  Archer grins crookedly. “Have you noticed Quinn is looking? … I don’t know if it’s strain or there’s actually something wrong with him.”

  Before his accident, it was Quinn’s erudite demeanor that differentiated him from Archer (and Reid). He is only slightly taller than our eldest brother and as broad of shoulders, but not as muscular or as thick-chested. He was also as shockingly good-looking as Archer and Reid once—although, his brainy qualities made that handsomeness less apparent somehow.

  My three brothers and Marlowe were so similar down to the cleft in their manly chins that only age and manner truly set them apart from one another. Reid alone had an undeniable sense of humor. Quinn was ever curious and distracted. And Archer might have been born to his air of authority. Marlowe was a combination of them all, decisive but thoughtful, austere but gentler, smoother but more defined. Our father was rather like a well-rounded rock.

  “He doesn’t leave the house, Archer. And even Quinn needs fresh air. Humph. For as fresh as this air is, it’s still better than being cooped up under a gas lamp’s light all day, every day.”

&nbs
p; “Mm. He’s stubborn, runs in the family.”

  “I wasn’t kidding, I think we need to hire a battle-ax kind of person that will force him to go out for at least a half-hour daily.”

  “He listens to you.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask with a moue.

  “Walk with him in the mornings. He’s up before any of us, anyway.”

  “Good idea!”

  “I suppose that he’s actually covered up his scars is a positive sign, wouldn’t you say?”

  I rise from my seat to peruse the bookshelves. “He can’t work with gloves on all the time, you know. And no doubt his hands are a constant reminder. But I think you’re right. He wouldn’t have covered up the scars on his jaw and throat. Or maybe he’s just preparing himself in his way … like Ruby.”

  I have not read anything that might be considered classical literature in the future and decide on The Mystery of Edwin Drood, a contemporary work serially published in the London penny papers two years ago. The edition my hand is a cloth-bound volume in six parts, each with a beautifully illustrated pale-blue cover. “See you tomorrow, Archer.”

  “Goodnight, River.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AFTER ANOTHER NIGHT spent tossing and turning, I once again find myself rising much too early. I stall for as long as possible, then coerce Quinn into a walk around the neighborhood, strolling on the path side of the rocks at the Lakefront on our way back. With the fascination my brother expresses, it’s plain he hasn’t made it past our fence in a while.

  After we return to the house, I hover around, waiting for Archer to come down. When finally I hear his footfalls on the stairs, I rush out of the house through the laundry room, deciding I don’t want to face him after all.

  On the back porch, I consider the hazy morning sun and cloudless pale pink sky again. “I should take my bicycle,” I voice to myself, already making my way to the carriage house.

  Although the majority of cycles on the road today are of the high-wheel variety, called penny farthings in England, mine is an older velocipede with relatively equal-sized front and back wheels. I had seen it in passing a few times when it was parked in the front window of Field, Palmer, Leiter & Co. Then last summer, a new red sign claiming “Last One” inspired my purchase before my chance was lost. I would have opted for the ladies version with the comfort seat, but that would have been asking for attention.

  The pedals of my bicycle are fixed to the front axle, and there is no braking system, which made for a very awkward ride at first, but I got used to the workings within a block and precariously drove the contraption home. I arrived without so much as a scraped knee but had expedited the wear on the heels of my boots tenfold. I’ve rarely taken it out since. The serpentine cast-iron frame is a mite large for me besides being cumbersome to maneuver. Avoiding cobblestone or rutted roads is nigh on impossible.

  It’s nicknamed the bone-shaker for a reason, I recall and march past the carriage house through the back gate. On Pine, I encounter Jane Battenberg on the front lawn, holding her skirts aloft while she chases around her charges, Timothy and Michael Prescott. She mocks a lunge and a block, then stops to wave enthusiastically at me. The boys rush her at that moment, throwing their arms around her tiny waist. She bends over them, laughing while returning their hugs.

  Whatever happened to hers and Allen’s budding romance? I wonder. Tim and Mikey still come over from time to time to help in the garden, but Allen hasn’t mentioned Jane in a while. This is just another way he’s distanced himself from the St. Clairs; society has had an effect even on us. It’s sad that friendship should be so divided, though I don’t think Allen and his sister think about it that way. My thoughts drift to Edwina and her nephew, and for the first time, I picture Selene by Owen Carr’s side. Certainly, a more beautiful couple you’d be hard-pressed to find. And Selene couldn’t want for a more perfect prince charming.

  It’s not even nine o’clock yet. But the streets have long since woken. Across the way, the wailing of an infant is nearly swallowed up by the racket of the carts and carriages and the shouts and chattering coming from the market just up ahead. I dodge the traffic and bob my head in polite greeting to all I pass, negotiating an opportunity to change course toward the river. It occurs to me that Eddy hadn’t mentioned how she’d come to know about the Days. But then, Edwina Carr hadn’t explained a lot. Where her nephew had provided whatever little insight I’d gotten into their lives and their family, Edwina had kept the conversation trained on my family and me.

  I halt in front of Harmon Trade Goods. A set consisting of fine-turned bone and ebony chess pieces and a casket and game board of deep-mahogany catches my eye. Vale and I had spent many a cold and wet night in front of the fire strategizing over not so fine a set. He was a much better player than I was, but his patience with me was unending.

  Shaking the thought from my mind, I will myself to think about anything else. My head is all over the place, and I don’t like it. Both to distract myself and to be productive, I enter Hope & Son Pharmacy, which was just Hope Pharmacy last year. Mr. Hope’s son had only just come home a few months ago, bearing fresh credentials from the Philadelphia College of Pharmacy.

  “Good day to you, Dr. St. Clair. I have much of your order ready,” Stanley Hope Jr. says, smiling as he always does with his upper lip flattening and lower lip curling in slightly against his bottom teeth. It’s a little creepy, but the man himself is kind, and he’s a good pharmacist.

  “Did you bring your conveyance, sir?” He strides over to the glass front of the store and scans the area outside for a carriage that might be mine. “You don’t mean to carry everything?” His tone and expression are guileless. There isn’t a hint of the condescending air that any other man would give me if I’d ordered an amount of supplies that even Archer couldn’t shoulder in one trip.

  “I’ve come for the masks, bandages, pipettes, plasters, and paraffin only. I’ll send someone to retrieve the remaining items along with the chemicals later this morning or afternoon.”

  “Given the quantity you order, sir, we usually deliver the carbolic acid separately. If a day or two’s delay won’t cause an issue, we can certainly deliver everything at once. Minus the supplies you’ll be taking with you today, of course. Would that work?”

  “Perfect.”

  He peruses a list, running a finger down the page. “Looks as though we’re still waiting on the large forceps and syringes, the crystalline camphor, and the carbolic acid.” He then nods and disappears through a brown velvet curtain.

  After a minute, I lean over the counter and project my voice into the back room, “And, Mr. Hope?”

  “Yes, sir,” he says from behind the drapes, closer than I thought he’d be.

  “Your father informed me last I was in that a new catalog would be published soon. Is it available?”

  “Indeed it is, sir. I’ll tuck it with your packages,” the pharmacist says.

  “Thanks.”

  Twenty minutes later, my parcels are unpacked, and everything has been put away. With my hands on my hips, I consider my empty dead room and how I’ll pass the time while I wait for some unfortunate soul to be wheeled in to keep me company.

  The lab door whooshes open, and Theo Dent announces, “I met with Dr. Varga, Doc, and the chief asked me to check in with you to see if you’re wanting to hear that account.”

  “I’m right behind you, sergeant.”

  With his arms folded loosely across his chest, Archer is half-sitting half-leaning on the edge of his desk when we enter. I’m somewhat surprised the alienist isn’t present, considering Dr. Varga is the subject of interest at the moment. I don’t ask after him, however. I bob my head in greeting and Archer nods back, flicking a glance at the two empty chairs across from him. “Whenever you’re ready, Dent.”

  Theo flips through his notebook and begins, “I caught up with Dr. Constantine Varga at his residence on Fourth and Hubbard Court around six o’clock yesterday evening. Uh, I�
�ll just go ’head and skip the details as they’ll be in my report if needed.” He looks up at Archer for a contraindication, and when his chief doesn’t so much as blink the sergeant proceeds. “I asked if he was aware of Birdie Day’s death. And when he’d confirmed his knowledge of the fact, I asked if he might give me a detailed account of his involvement with that family, particularly as it pertained to the missus being in the family way. I made no mention of Doc’s findings. Thought I’d give Varga a chance to talk his way around it, to see if I could pick up any awkwardness on his part, sir.”

  Archer nods, pleased with Theo’s tactfulness. “And?”

  “Straight away, he said it was a baffling case as he’d thoroughly examined Mrs. Day and found no evidence of a babe. Admitted to being ‘initially ill-informed.’”

  “But he found evidence of a uterus, did he?” I ask cynically.

  “Her growing belly, you mean?”

  “No, the actual womb, like inside her body cavity, in the pelvic region.”

  “Ah. Uh, I’ll ask my mother … but I’m pretty sure it would have been an external examination, Doc.”

  “You’re joking,” I say shortly.

  The sergeant freezes as though I’ve said something shocking. He turns in his chair and plants his hands on his thighs, tilting his head to study me in all seriousness. “I’ve grown accustomed to your humor, Doc. And I can most times ascertain what you mean. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what I said that was funny.”

  “You didn’t. I guess my definition of thoroughly is slightly different from Dr. Varga’s.” I bury my face in my hands and shake my head in disgust. When I look up, Archer’s eyes are glazed, and he’s looking off into the distance, his mouth clamped into a firm line. He’s trying not to laugh, I realize. And the eager officer still wears a confused expression. “Really, Theo, don’t mind me. I’m just an inappropriate snob for assuming a doctor’s examination actually involves examining his patient.”