No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  Archer blinks down at me in surprise. In all my thirty-six years, I don’t think I’ve ever lectured him about how unbrotherly he’s been. After the briefest pause, he nods and says, “I’ve been trying.”

  “I know,” I say quietly, taking into account our conversation yesterday. “But you’ll have to try harder, and I will too. All we have is us, Archer.”

  “We have us,” he reiterates with a glimmer in his eyes. “You’ve also just made my day a little better, pipsqueak.”

  “See, I didn’t know if it was a bad day or just mildly irritating as usual. You act as though you can just brush everything off, or I should say brush people off. But I know you’re not as unaffected as you’d like everyone to think you are.”

  He turns to stare at the bare wall. “Kate … or me and her, you mean.” When I raise my brows and shrug my shoulders he volunteers, “Well, I’m not happy about it, River, but I don’t want to marry and settle down, and I won’t be forced into it just because that’s what’s expected. Then there’s the fact that I care about her too much to manipulate her into accepting less than she deserves or desires for herself. We’re left with one solution. And it’s me who has to accept it.”

  I grimace sympathetically.

  “Now, we should get to work,” he says tightly, though his reined-in distress isn’t aimed at me.

  “After you.”

  In front of the interview room, he says, “A few of the other police stations have installed one-way mirrors, you know?”

  “Next, you’ll be telling me they’re looking to hire someone with emotional-range recognition and body language expertise.”

  “Don’t even think about mutinying, Reid.”

  We both turn our attention to the three men in the room. Tanner is sitting at the head of the table on the right, across from Theo, seated at the opposite end. Constantine Varga is sitting in the middle, facing the window, hands folded together on the tabletop. He nods in response to a question, his expression open and guileless.

  The physician appears to be a short man. He is on the stocky side of fit with rounded square shoulders and a thick neck. Friendly blue eyes, a narrow pink-tipped nose, and a somewhat small mouth sit symmetrically amidst his broad rosy-cheeked face. In a way that has nothing to do with actual cleanliness, he looks clean—as some people inexplicably do. He has a broad, oddly wrinkle-free forehead and dull sandy brown close-cropped hair, mustache, and beard. The only quality that adds a touch of artfulness to his face is his peaked hairline.

  The door is closed, and so we cannot hear anything being said, but as I’ve already accounted, I have nothing better to do than to watch for subtle changes in Dr. Varga’s mien. After almost twenty minutes, the three occupants stand. Archer and I retreat to his office while Theo and Tanner finalize the interview.

  Looking over my shoulder, I say, “So, why didn’t you ask the alienist to observe this interview as well? That’s twice that Dr. Varga has been asked to come in, and Ennis has not.”

  “I’m afraid he’s too invested, and I’d rather filter what he knows for the time being. This is about the miracle baby and the missing one, not a would-be baby trafficker.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing,’” I say solemnly. Archer will probably note the skepticism in the words despite my tone.

  “See, one minute Vale is regurgitating that nonsense—which is all it is without a shred of proof—and the next he’s repeating that Ennis simply wanted justice or to save future unsuspecting mothers from unnecessary trauma. First of all, if Varga is acting as a mediator between consenting parties, that merely makes him an adoption agent. Short of leading the shrink’s ghost around by the hand so he can see the squalor some of these kids grow up in, I just don’t think any of this makes sense. As for Ennis’s other point, regret is not police business.” He pauses, his eyes following someone. “I think Henry Ennis’s perspective was clouded by his personal loss. He trailed Varga here on a grief-stricken whim. And Vale is possibly latching on to a purpose.”

  “Like he wants to be worthy of everything his benefactor has given him,” I suggest levelly, glancing again over my shoulder to make sure no one overhears us. “If he can catch the villain, he’s earned his keep as well as Ennis’s peace.”

  “Precisely.”

  Making me cringe, the screechy scrape of an extra chair from outside Archer’s office puts a halt to our conversation.

  “Carry the damned thing, Adams.”

  “Sir,” the sergeant murmurs, hefting the solid oak chair and setting it beside me.

  Once they are both seated, I turn to watch the silent interchange between the best friends. First, Theo rolls his eyes almost imperceptibly. Then Tanner’s lips fold together for a brief second. Theo scratches an ear. Tanner clears his throat.

  “Out with it. Either of you. You don’t need to tell us the questions you asked or the doctor’s replies word for word. I’ll expect a more detailed account in your report.”

  “The doctor confirmed that he weren’t called to the Days’ residence the night little Avis was born. In fact, the last time he’d visited with either the mister or missus was a full week ago prior. And though he insisted it was impossible, the Days insisted in return, sir, that they were in need of his services if not at present then at the time of delivery,” Tanner, says, pausing to flick a sideways glance at the poised notebook in his partner’s hand.

  Sergeant Dent continues, “As I said before, the missus would not let the doctor examine her after the first time, sirs. The reasons being, the doctor said, were that the Days felt to do so would be unchristian, as though they doubted God’s will and then there was the undue worry. The doctor, however, was able to confirm that Mrs. Day’s condition was progressing normally. Again, he admitted his surprise—it did rather appear as though Mrs. Day was in the family way. During his last visit, Dr. Varga noted the household was preparing for her confinement.”

  “Fine. Reid, what did you think of him? Did he come off as credible? Did his manner strike you as suspicious in any way?”

  The sergeants do not know that my special abilities are actually possible because of the implant supporting and enhancing the amygdala of my brain. They have simply grown more accustomed to my uncanny observation skills and used to me answering questions they did not ask.

  “Nope. He’s telling the truth. From beginning to end, I observed not a twitch, not a single furrow of the brow, not a narrowing of the eyes, not a nervous nibble of a fingernail, not a bead of sweat. No fidgeting. No obvious discomfort, though he likely asked after the location of the toilet once the interview was over.” The sergeants both blink at me, Tanner’s mouth slightly agape and Theo’s head cocked to the side in wonderment.

  “Our very own lie-detector,” Archer says with a proud slant to his lips. “So, sergeants, we’re going to wait until the morning to work the other side of this equation. It should come as no surprise that we’re moving forward with the assumption Avis Ann Day and Hannah Lynch are one and the same. We just have to determine how the girl wound up with the Days. Tanner, you said neither you nor Sergeant Neumann witnessed anything amiss at the Lynchs’, but I want you to resume your watch, anyway.”

  Sergeant Adams stores away his notebook and pencil in his jacket breast pocket and gets to his feet. “Should I have a word with the charwoman, Hester Robinson, this time, sir? And today’s Olive Marsh’s day as well.”

  “Good thinking, Tanner. And apply a little pressure this time. Let both women believe the police are about to get involved with the disappearance of the Lynch’s baby. Maybe hint we suspect a blackmail scheme in the works. But if you see them together, leave them be until you can approach each separately so they can’t corroborate each other’s story.”

  “Got it, chief.” Sergeant Adams strides away, swinging his arms, a pep in his step. It takes so little to make them happy, I think.

  “As for you, Theo, write up the interview with Varga. I want it within the hour. Then I want you
to start digging around for a common denominator. Do the Lynchs and Days know one another socially? Are they connected in some way other than the fact that they employ the same washerwoman?”

  Sergeant Dent beams too. “Righto, sir. I have an idea of how I might gather a useful tidbit or two.”

  When it is just Archer and me again, he glances at his watch and pronounces we should head home within the next half an hour or so. That would see us walking in the door at roughly five o’clock, leaving just enough time to get ready.

  “Are you going to eat that apple?” I ask, eyeing the red beauty hiding behind the desk lamp. He tosses it to me, and I chomp down on it hungrily. “I missed lunch,” I say through the non-bulging side of my mouth, slurping up the juices that almost dribble down my chin. “I can’t remember an apple tasting so good.”

  He reaches back and slides open the pencil drawer of his desk. “Mrs. Dent made oatmeal currant cake. It’s dense but not bad. Should fill you up until dinner.”

  Polishing off the fruit on the way back to my dead room, I leave Archer to his work. I need to finish the cleaning project I’d started before the interview with Constantine Varga. I plead with whoever is listening to save me from my thoughts for the next hour.

  As soon as I enter a light tap tap tap on the back entrance to the morgue has me sending a very grateful “Thank you” skyward. I’m finding this prayer thing is working for me lately. Maybe it has decided I’ve been unfairly treated after all.

  “Billy. I mean, Will. Is everything all right? Come in.”

  He removes his hat and squeezes the bill, shifting his weight onto one leg. “Oh, yes, sir. It’s all good. It jus’, well, I didn’t see you yesterday an’ I thought you should know Lulu is all set up at the theater. She’s living there now, an’ I get her bed. It’s right comft’ble. Miss Foster also gave me a job. I sweep the outside after each show. She says if I do a good job, she’ll see about setting me to ’nother more emportant work inside, maybe helping out during the shows,” he says with awe.

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Yeah, it is. My ma says you’re a feckin’ angel. She means it in a nice way, sir,” he says, looking up at the ceiling and wringing his cap some more. “You don’t think He’ll hold my ma’s swearing against her, will He? And I donna curse much either, really.”

  “No, I don’t think He will. Tell your ma she is very kind to say so.”

  “Will do.” He smiles broadly at the pun. “That’s funny. Get it—Will do?” But soon, the pleasantness of his expression wanes into sadness. “Also, sir, word around is Petey O’Connell’s … um, he were found over by the railroad depot.”

  “Petey.”

  “He, uh, he uh worked the area between here an’ just south of twenty-ninth.”

  “By worked you mean he picked pockets for a living?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he got back and forth by way of the train?”

  “Many of the boys would sleep on top of the trains an’ ride ’em in, in the morning. I’d seen ’em boarding and jumping off more’n once. I couldn’t ever do that.” Billy shifts from one foot to the other and squeezes the bill of his cap some more, staring down at it thoughtfully. I reach into my pocket and hand him a few coins.

  “Well, that’s alls I got, sir,” he says, cocking his head to look at me. He proffers the hand with the coins, wondering if the information he supplied was worth the amount he’d been paid.

  “It’s fine, Will. That’s your regular pay. You don’t have to be uncertain about taking it. I’m not prone to mistakes.”

  “’Kay.”

  “And if you haven’t seen by Thursday each week, I want you to come here whether you have news for me or not? Knock on that door like you just did.”

  “Sure ’nough, sir.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IT IS STRANGE to see myself dressed up—as myself—after all this time. I brush my hand over the soft, subtly shiny fabric of my trouser leg and the arm of my dinner jacket and marvel at my social virginity. It’s a well-to-do boy’s outfit, but it fits me all the same, contouring my figure perfectly. I have no idea how Allen manages it; I’ve never once told him my measurements, my glove or shoe size, but no matter the purpose, he chooses just the right costume for me.

  The deep obsidian of my suit matches the onyx in my silver, diamond, and onyx earrings, choker, and bracelet set—and the three encrusted hairpins, which are only visible from a view of my profile. I’ve parted my hair further to one side than usual and smoothed it high away from my forehead with a bit of pomade, letting the rest of my short locks curl in spiky tendrils around my face and neck. The stark white of my collarless shirt against my cravat-less neck seems to accentuate my throat and jaw. And I have to say, despite my nervousness, I feel confident and feminine. I slip my toes into my black patent leather oxfords and dust a piece of lint from my shoulder.

  “There’s something of Willow in you tonight, River,” Archer says, coming up next to me, his eyes shining.

  “I’m wearing her jewelry.”

  “It’s more than that. Mom’s elegance, I think.”

  “Wow. What a compliment. Thanks. It’s been a while. And look at you. You cut a pretty dashing picture yourself.” I say, scanning his massive tall form clad in a black dinner jacket and slacks, crisp white shirt, and an ivory waistcoat and cravat.

  He grins and bows his head in a most gentlemanly manner. “I’ve asked Allen and the borrowed footman to show our guests into the salon when they arrive.”

  “I didn’t speak to Allen about the seating arrangements, did you?” I ask, really only concerned about where Vale will be sitting relative to me. I had meant to ask Allen to see to it that his sister was placed next to Owen Carr as well.

  “I didn’t,” he says too stiffly.

  “You did.”

  He harrumphs and says, “I did, yes,” walking over to my bed and sitting on the edge. He wedges his heels behind the low footboard and leans back on his hands.

  “And are you going to tell me?”

  “To seat you as far away from my cousin-uncle as possible,” he says, and to which, I respond by folding my arms over my chest, squaring my shoulders, and glaring at him. “Don’t look at me like that. There will be only eight around the table, so it’s not like your precious Owen will be all that far.”

  “Whatever. You’re ridiculous.” I shake my head and withdraw my watch from my pocket. “Allen has been informed by Cassell’s that it’s fashionable for guests to arrive ten minutes late.”

  “Ah, right,” he says, sitting up. “There’s a problem Allen hadn’t considered when he instructed Ruby to leave after setting the table. Everything’s in place, but the food is still in the kitchen in warming pans. He’ll need to enlist the footman to bring out the first course—at which point you can come in. I’ll come and get you. Then Allen will manage the serving for the rest of the meal. He’s hoping his sister won’t mind pitching in too.”

  “Are you kidding? No, Archer. They’re guests, first of all. And have you given the smallest thought to what they’ll be wearing? Absolutely not. We just leave everything on the kitchen counter and serve ourselves. That’s it. I’m sure the Carrs will understand.”

  “He won’t like it. He’s gotten particular.”

  “Of course, he won’t like it. He’s Allen-the-butler now.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But you’re his boss; so tell him how it’s to be. Or I’ll run down there and set him straight right now,” I say, smacking my palm with the back of my other hand. “It’s for one night. Just tell him that we promise not to invite him to our posh dinner parties after tonight. Tell him we’ll absolutely let him descend the ladder if that’s what he wants. … Geez, what an oddball he is.”

  “We’re all a bit strange, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “So true.” I grin. “Now, go, before he finds some other way to bail. We should have asked Selene to arrive early if only to talk some sense into
him.”

  A quarter of an hour later, I’m descending the staircase as though in a ball gown, head held high, one hand gliding along the smooth walnut banister and the fingertips grazing my thigh.

  Although Quinn and Archer are present also, when I enter the salon, the first person my eyes land on is Selene, who’s standing next to Archer by the fireplace. Her tall willowy frame would be just as noticeable were there fifty people in the room. She looks positively regal in a soft-white silken gown with an apricot-colored sash around her narrow waist and navy-blue embroidered tulips dotting the bottom half of a full skirt. The neckline swoops across her chest, gently cupping the caps of her shoulders. Her only jewelry is a pair of pearl drop earrings and a peach ribbon around her neck from which a small dark blue cameo is suspended. Her hair is swept up in a simple chignon, and she wears a peach ribbon headband.

  “Selene. To say you look amazing would be an understatement.”

  She turns toward me and smiles easily. “Seriously, River, the whole gentleman tomboy thing suits you!”

  “And seriously,” I tease, “you’re the loveliest Victorian woman I’ve ever seen.”

  She curtsies and unconsciously looks to Archer, who nods once brusquely.

  “Quinn, you look smashing.” I notice he has covered up his scars and the hollows under his eyes.

  “Mm-hmm. Thanks.”

  “Allen tells me Vale is-is coming?” Selene asks.

  “Yes,” I say, my smile fading with the pleasantries. My brothers make no attempt to mask their concern.

  “River—”

  “Not a word. You’re doing better, Archer, but I’d prefer you kept certain things to yourself. I don’t interfere with your life,” I say, leaving the “so don’t interfere with mine” part unspoken. Confused, Selene studies Archer’s face and then mine.

  “Really, River, why is it you never reprimand Quinn?” he counters, narrowing his eyes.