Lost In Time

by W M Wiltshire

  Parents wanted their children off the streets. Mothers worried about their working daughters coming home after dark. Husbands were worried for their wives. And prostitutes still had to make a living.

  The women of Whitechapel were angry. Their rage was driven by terror. They feared that the killer would strike again. “Thank God, I needn’t be out after dark!” exclaimed one woman.

  “No more needn’t I,” chimed another.

  “But my two girls have got to come home latish, and I’m all of a fidget till they comes,” cried a mother.

  A little woman with a rosy cherub face summed up the general view thus: “Life ain’t no great thing with many of us, but we don’t all want to be murdered, and, if things go on like this, it won’t be safe for nobody to put their ‘eads out o’ doors.”

  * * *

  “Terrible, it is; simply terrible.”

  “What is?” Martha asked, catching Elsie in the kitchen muttering to herself again.

  “Those poor souls, killed that way and left out on the street.” Elsie shivered at the thought. “Terrible it is.”

  “What is?” Mary asked when she entered the kitchen.

  “Elsie’s been goin’ on about those murdered women,” Martha said.

  “I agree with you, Elsie. It is terrible. Tragic, actually,” Mary said.

  “Missus, your seamstress, Mrs. Wilson, dropped off that package you’ve been expecting. I put it on Miss Delaney’s bed, just like you asked,” Martha said.

  “Great. Thank you, Martha.” Mary left the kitchen to open her much-expected package. First, however, she had to find Dani. As she passed the drawing room, she saw Dani talking with Daric, quite animatedly, too.

  “Dani, if you could spare a moment. I want to show you something,” Mary interrupted.

  “Coming,” Dani replied. “We’ll finish this later,” she muttered quietly to Daric. She took off after Mary, who was taking the stairs two at a time.

  In Dani’s bedroom, laid out on the bed, were some of the most practical clothes Dani had seen in this time period. When Mary had asked her seamstress to make a couple of outfits for Dani, she had let Dani describe how she wanted them cut, because Dani couldn’t get comfortable in any of the clothing that were fashionable in this era. And what lay on the bed suited Dani perfectly. She just hoped they would be appropriate enough to please Mary. She wouldn’t want to cause her any embarrassment.

  “Try them on,” Mary invited eagerly.

  Dani picked out an outfit and put it on while Mary waited anxiously. When she was finished, Dani turned around and asked, “What do you think?”

  Dani was wearing a long pale-blue, narrow skirt with a matching blouse. She projected the image of feminine beauty: tall and slender, with a voluptuous, yet not lewd, bosom and shapely hips. She was statuesque, conveying ease and style. Dani had also pinned her hair into a knot at the nape of the neck, a chignon or waterfall of curls.

  Mary was totally taken in by Dani’s beauty, accentuated by the style of the clothes she had designed and was modeling. She couldn’t believe how practical they seemed. No more bustles or crinolines or layers of heavy material. Mary loved them.

  “Do you think I would look as fantastic as you do in those?” Mary asked hesitantly.

  “Most definitely.” Dani grinned.

  153: Sunday, September 10, 1888

  It was shortly after 8:00 A.M. Sergeant William Thick knew exactly what he had to do.

  It had been in all the various newspapers. The police were looking for a suspect by the name of Leather Apron. He was being sought for questioning in connection with the recent murders in Whitechapel.

  The East London Observer gave a rather uncomplimentary description of the man known as Leather Apron. It said, His face was not altogether pleasant to look upon by reason of the grizzly black strips of hair, nearly an inch in length, which almost covered his face; the thin lips, too, had a cruel, sardonic kind of look, which was increased by the drooping dark mustache and side whiskers. His hair was short, smooth and dark, intermingled with grey. His head, slightly bald on top, was large and fixed to his body by a thick, heavy-looking neck. He appeared splay-footed and spoke with a thick guttural foreign accent.

  It’s always harder when it’s someone you’ve known for years, he thought. Thick made his way down Commercial Street, turning left onto Whitechapel Road. He was in no hurry. He had known Leather Apron a.k.a. John Pizer for eighteen years and had immediately volunteered to bring him in for questioning.

  Thick turned off Whitechapel Road, walked a block, and then turned onto Mulberry Street. He walked to the front door of Number 22 and knocked.

  John Pizer pulled open the door. He knew immediately that the man at the door had come for him. This wasn’t a social call.

  “You are just the man I want,” said Thick.

  Thick escorted Pizer to the Leman Street station for questioning, with Pizer proclaiming his innocence, the entire way.

  Pizer told the police that, on the night of Mary Ann Nichols’ murder, he was staying at the Crossman’s Lodging House on Holloway Road. He said he spoke to a policeman about the fire at the Shadwell Docks that he later went to see. He told them the fire broke out around 8:30 P.M. and was under control around 11:00 P.M. Although it wasn’t fully extinguished for several hours, he left and returned to Crossman’s Lodging House, arriving around 2:15 A.M. He didn’t wake until 11:00 A.M. that morning and that’s when he learned of the murder. Pizer couldn’t have committed the murder. He wasn’t anywhere near Buck’s Row.

  * * *

  Later that morning, the inquest into Annie Chapman’s’ murder started.

  154

  Dani had left for the hospital, alone this morning. Mary hadn’t been feeling well and had elected to stay home. She had been throwing up all morning and couldn’t seem to keep anything down. Dani suggested that some dry crackers might help. She was almost certain that Mary was experiencing morning sickness. She felt for her friend’s suffering, but knew, in the long run, Mary would be elated.

  Upon her arrival at the hospital, Dani had informed the duty nurse of Mary’s absence. As a result, many of the nursing staff had to handle the duties previously assigned to Mary.

  The day had turned out to be a long and tiring one. By the end of it, Dani was eager to get home and see how Mary was faring. Before heading home, however, she had to stop in to say good night to her friend.

  Dani knocked on the door. The customary response for her to enter came back almost immediately. She opened the door and found Joseph sitting by the window reading a book which he immediately put down.

  Joseph couldn’t get enough material to read. He read every issue of the daily newspapers, which kept him well informed on the happenings of the real world outside his room. His greatest passion, however, was reading romance novels. He adored the chivalry he read about in his books. He often fantasized that he was living in the stories he was reading.

  “Are you departing, my lady?” Joseph asked in greeting.

  “Yes, my gallant gentleman. It is time for me to bid you adieu.” Dani instantly picked up on Joseph’s role-playing. She had studied drama in school and loved to play along with Joseph’s imaginative scenarios.

  “Does your chariot await?”

  “Not tonight, dear one. I thought I’d enjoy the leisurely stroll. I’m to meet up with my kin. That I shall say good night till it be morrow,” Dani recited, quoting a small, but notable, piece from Shakespeare, as she left the room.

  “Till it be morrow,” Joseph muttered, but Dani was already out of earshot.

  Dani made her way out of the hospital. It was only a couple of blocks to the Frying Pan pub.

  What Joseph had been reading in the papers of late caused him great worry. He picked up a paper and read: Finding that, in spite of the murders being committed in our midst, our police
force is inadequate to discover the author or authors of the late atrocities, we the undersigned have formed ourselves into a committee and intend offering a substantial reward to anyone, citizen or otherwise, who shall give such information as will be the means of bringing the murderer or murderers to justice. It was published on behalf of the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee.

  The thought of Dani being out on those dark and dangerous streets, alone, especially at night, drove Joseph nearly mad. He had to do something. He grabbed his coat, hat and cane and disappeared through the garden door.

  Joseph was grateful that Dr. Treves had made a long-standing arrangement to have a cab at Joseph’s disposal, whenever he needed one. There was always one parked outside the London Hospital’s front entrance.

  “Meet me around the corner by the Frying Pan pub,” Joseph instructed the cabbie. “I’m going for a walk.” The hansom cab drove off in the direction of the pub.

  Dani walked along Whitechapel Road, turning left onto Osborn. She was enjoying the fresh air or, what she had considered to be fresh air in London. Dani paused. She thought she heard footsteps behind her. She turned to investigate, but no one was there. It must be my imagination, she thought, continuing on her way.

  Joseph had kept to the shadows as he followed Dani through the dimly lit streets. He had caught sight of a stranger moving toward Dani. Joseph quickly moved in to intercept the stranger who took one look at Joseph and ran in the opposite direction.

  Dani entered the Frying Pan pub, safe and sound. Joseph knew her brother would see her home safely; he had completed his task for the night. He turned the corner onto Thrawl Street and entered his waiting cab.

  “Home, please,” Joseph said, relieved that his fair maiden was no longer in danger.

  155: Present Day

  “Oh my God, it’s gone!” Quinn cried out again.

  “Quinn, what is it? What’s gone?” Richard asked warily. He knew exactly the cause of Quinn’s anguish.

  “The chronizium; it’s gone. It was in a chest on this shelf. Now it’s gone.”

  So that’s what’s in there, Richard thought greedily.

  “Are you sure? Maybe you forgot where you put it?” Richard was trying to provide a rational alternative. He had stolen Quinn’s chronizium supply on his previous visit to the lab and he now possessed the new and powerful source of energy. He just didn’t know what he could do with it, yet.

  “I’m sure,” Quinn stated, unequivocally. “The kids must have taken it with them. Not that it will do them any good. Even if they knew what they had, they’d never be able to get the chest open.”

  Quinn turned from his futile searching and stared, pleadingly, at Richard. “I need your help, Richard.”

  “With what?” He hated to be inconvenienced in any way and that included demands on his time.

  “I have to find some chronizium. Without it, I don’t have the power to initiate time travel from this end; I won’t be able to bring the kids home,” Quinn explained.

  “Of course, I’ll help you. Anything you need, it’s yours,” Richard said eagerly. His mind was already awhirl with endless possibilities: he would be famous. He wanted this incredible scientific breakthrough all to himself. He just needed a little time to put a plan into place; sticking close to Quinn right now was the first step.

  “I need to go back to New Zealand and find more chronizium.”

  “How can I help?”

  “I need your private jet. I’d rather not advertise this trip to anyone. Besides, the chronizium will not be easy to find, let alone take out of the country without having to answer a barrage of awkward questions. All of which I would prefer to avoid.”

  Richard’s greed was steering him down a path where many would never venture. His common sense and intellect were playing a game of tug-of-war: You can’t be serious—time travel? Get a grip. But what if Quinn has actually perfected the ability to travel in time? The opportunities would be endless.

  “Of course, but on one condition,” Richard offered.

  “Name it.”

  “I’m going with you . . . and before you say no, hear me out. You just told me the chronizium would be difficult to find, so you will need my help. You also said you wanted to keep this trip under the radar, right?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “So, give me a couple of days to get my affairs in order and I’ll fly you to New Zealand. No one else needs to be involved. We can be there and back before anyone even knows we’ve gone.”

  “It’s a deal,” Quinn agreed, knowing he had no better options.

  Quinn returned to his console. “I have to get back to work. Hermes and I have to link Bear’s bands with Dani’s and Daric’s. And then we have to finish the computations for travelling to the future,” Quinn stated urgently. “You go make the necessary arrangements and then call me when you’re ready.” Quinn turned back to his equations, not waiting for a response.

  Richard showed himself out. He almost ran back to his car. He jumped in and sped down the driveway, spitting gravel in his wake. He couldn’t wait to get home.

  156: Sunday, September 10, 1888

  “I’ll be right with you,” Daric said, upon seeing Dani enter the pub. Daric delivered the drinks he was carrying and picked up the coins.

  “I’m off, Mr. Farrow,” Daric yelled to the back room. William Farrow had been revelling in Daric’s extra hours at the pub; indeed, he had decided to take some long overdue and much needed leisure time for himself. It was the first he had taken in years and, even if it involved nothing more than sitting on his duff in the back room, he was relishing it.

  “All right, Daric. See you tomorrow,” Mr. Farrow said, coming out to take over the running of the pub.

  * * *

  “I feel like Cassandra,” Dani muttered.

  “What?” Daric was lost in his own thoughts as they walked along Commercial Street to meet Rich for a ride home.

  “I said, I feel like Cassandra,” Dani repeated.

  “Cassandra?”

  “Yeah, Cassandra, from Greek mythology. She was a princess of Troy who served as a priestess in the temple of Apollo during the Trojan War. She was given the gift of prophecy; she could foresee the future. But at the same time, she was cursed, because her prophecies would not be believed,” Dani explained.

  “So, why do you feel like her?”

  “Because we know who Jack the Ripper was, but, because of our situation, we can’t tell anyone what we know. Even if we could, how would we explain how we came to know?” Dani asked despondently.

  “Who was he?” Daric asked eagerly.

  “Come on, Daric,” Dani chided. “Remember, back about five years ago? It was all over the media.”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  “They knew he was about five-foot-seven and quite muscular. He had a pale, brown mustache.”

  “So does half the male population, from what I’ve seen,” Daric muttered.

  “With advanced forensics and with routine DNA testing in our time, they could finally identify who Jack the Ripper was. Don’t you remember?” Dani said teasingly.

  “No, I don’t. Just tell me,” Daric urged in frustration.

  “It was . . .”

  “Look out!” Daric screamed, hurling himself at Dani.

  When their bodies collided and crumpled in a tangle of limbs on the ground, their bands touched. Dani and Daric instantly vanished from under the wheels of the thundering carriage that suddenly came upon them out of nowhere.

  Author’s Notes Part II

  What can one write about Amelia Earhart that hasn’t already been written? As a fellow pilot, I can understand her infatuation with being able to move three-dimensionally, being free to go where you please, just like an eagle. But that’s where our similarities end.

  When I was thirty-eight-years
-old, I was taxiing my single-engine Cessna 150 along the apron toward the hangar when the flight instructor said, “Stop here.” I pulled over as requested and applied the brakes. The instructor removed his headset, opened the door and got out of the airplane. He said, “It’s time for your solo. Do one circuit and bring the plane back here. I’ll meet you inside.” He shut the door and left.

  There I was, all alone in the cockpit. I was both terrified and exhilarated. I had been wondering why we had spent most of my lesson that day doing ‘touch and gos’. For those not familiar with the term, ‘touch and gos’ are circuits of an airfield where the pilot lands the plane and, then, immediately retracts the flaps, applies full throttle and takes off again.

  So, as I sat there, alone in the cockpit, my mind raced over all the things I had to do: call the tower for clearance, taxi as instructed to the hold position just off the active runway, move into position for take-off, check all panel instruments, and then, with just the right amount of pressure on the rudder pedals, apply full power and slip the surly bonds of gravity.

  With one circuit of the field almost completed, I was now on my final approach for landing. My heart rate was exploding, even more so since I always found landing more challenging than taking off. My mind raced with the myriad of items that needed attending to: lower flaps, reduce airspeed, keep the nose up, line up with the centre line of the runway, easy now . . . easy, look straight down the runway, flare and touchdown. It was over—I had done it! And all by the age of thirty-eight! What an accomplishment. I felt so proud of myself.

  In contrast, on January 11, 1935, when Amelia Earhart was thirty-eight-years-old, she became the first person, not just the first woman, but the first person, to fly solo from Honolulu, Hawaii to Oakland, California. Later that same year, on April 19, she flew solo from Los Angeles to Mexico City. Then, on May 8, she flew from Mexico City to New York. A few months later, Amelia contemplated one last fight that would set her apart from all others: to circumnavigate the world at its ‘waistline’.