In Loving Memory

by Winona Kent

  Charlie stopped. She was shivering uncontrollably.

  “Will you report Betty’s lodger to the police?”

  “I ought to. I don’t have to mention the 1849 killings. The two current ones are enough.”

  Mr. Deeley fell back upon the two plumped-up pillows, closing his eyes.

  “Three,” he corrected, tiredly.

  “Yes, three….”

  “He has no inkling that you discovered what was inside his case?”

  “No. He was asleep. I was very careful not to disturb him.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Deeley. “Good.” He smiled a little. “An afterthought, Mrs. Collins. If this lodger, the father of Betty’s child, is indeed Silas Ferryman, then we may arrive at the conclusion that he is not my son. And therefore, Mrs. Collins, we may also arrive at the very happy conclusion that you are no longer my great granddaughter.”

  “That is a happy conclusion,” Charlie agreed. “But then… I wonder who’s buried in the grave that we saw, Mr. Deeley? Is it the real Thaddeus… or is it Silas Ferryman?”

  “Indeed, we might ponder this….” Mr. Deeley said, his voice drifting away into sleep. “Will you stay with me, Mrs. Collins?”

  “Always, Mr. Deeley. Always.”

  She knelt by the side of the bed, watching him, afraid that if she looked away, he would disappear again.

  She removed his shoes and put them underneath the bed. She unknotted his already loosened tie, and pulled it off, and placed it beside him on the pillow. He’d fallen asleep on top of the sheets and blankets, so she manoeuvred the eiderdown out from underneath his legs, and gently covered him with it.

  And then, still kneeling beside him on the floor, she kissed him, and kissed him again, and rested her head upon his chest, and closed her eyes, and stayed that way for long minutes, listening to his strong, even breathing.

  • • •

  Betty was standing in the doorway to the little kitchen. “I suppose I should think about supper,” she said as Charlie came downstairs. “I might attempt that spiced beef recipe from the cookery pamphlet, as I’ve managed to dig up the last two potatoes from the garden. Will you two be staying here for tonight, do you think, Charlotte? Has Ruby got herself sorted yet?”

  “She’s still a bit disorganized,” Charlie said apologetically. “And she hasn’t been able to get anything over her broken windows yet. I think just one more night with you, if you wouldn’t mind? And then, I promise, Mr. Deeley and I will go home. We’d only really intended to stay the weekend… but everything got mixed up after we lost our suitcase and got caught in the raid.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Betty said. “In truth, I’ve been glad of the company. I shall miss you when you’re gone. We must stay in touch.”

  “We must,” Charlie agreed, as the front door knocker went rat-tat-tat and, moments later, she heard the sound of the key in the lock.

  “Thad!” Betty shouted, rushing out of the kitchen to greet her dark-haired lodger. She kissed him, and gave him a hug. “We’ve been ever so worried about you! Where on earth have you been?”

  “I’m so sorry, my love. I was caught up in London. I’d have rung, but everywhere I tried, the telephones were either not working, or nowhere to be found.”

  Charlie stayed where she was, beside the staircase. As he shut the door, she noted that he did not have his suitcase with him.

  “Well come in and have a cup of tea,” Betty said. “And sit down. You look thoroughly worn out.” She went back into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  “I worried about where you’d gone last night, Charlotte,” Ferryman said. “I must have dozed off, and when I came to, you’d disappeared.”

  “Sorry,” Charlie said. “I just wanted to get out of there. The bombing had stopped. I caught a bus.”

  “Well, I’m very glad you got back safely. I’d never have forgiven myself if something had happened to you.”

  “Thank you,” Charlie said. “I suppose you know another woman was found with her throat cut on a bomb site quite near to the hotel where Mr. Deeley and I had lunch.”

  The lodger’s face hardened. “Yes. He did kill again. It is as I feared. It was the waitress, Violet. And a string of pearls was taken from her body.”

  “How do you possibly know that? It only happened last night.”

  “I was a police constable in Middlehurst,” he said quickly. “I am not without the means of investigation.” He paused. “I didn’t say anything to you about it last night, Charlotte, but I am better equipped to travel in time than you—or Ferryman—may know. My journey to this time was accidental. But since my arrival, I’ve discovered the means by which I can go back. And I have done so, on several occasions. After each of these visits, I was able to return here. And after completing each journey, my confidence has grown. I merely need to place my hands upon Ferryman, and ensure he doesn’t escape, and he will be removed to 1849 to face a judge and jury.”

  “Why do you keep coming back? Why don’t you just go back to 1849 and arrest Silas Ferryman before he can get away?”

  “I don’t seem to be able to. I seem only to be able to return to a time that follows our departure.”

  “Then why don’t you do that? Just go back to 1850. Then no one from this time will be able to find you.”

  In the kitchen, Betty was humming the Artie Shaw tune that had been playing on the Marconi radio when Charlie and Mr. Deeley had first arrived on Friday night.

  “Because of her,” the lodger replied simply. “And our child. I love them both.”

  “Well, if you do manage to arrest Ferryman and return him to 1849, you’ll be saying goodbye to Betty, won’t you?”

  “I will. And it’s not something I want to dwell on, believe me. I don’t know how I’ll reconcile that. Perhaps my stay in 1849 will not be permanent.”

  “Lucky Betty.”

  “You still doubt who I am.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I would,” Betty’s lodger replied, not unkindly. “You saw the suitcase I was carrying last night…?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “It belongs to Ferryman. I removed it from his hotel room while you and Shaun were having lunch with him. Before the raid. Inside that suitcase is everything I need to prove he is, indeed, the Middlehurst Slasher. It contains his trophies. All of them, from 1849 and from now.”

  “If he is Silas Ferryman,” Charlie said, “why doesn’t he just go somewhere else—some time else? Why is he still here?”

  “I can’t say for certain, Charlotte, but I don’t believe he’s able to go into another time. I believe he’s more or less stranded here. He’s arrived here because of me. And because of that, I believe his only recourse, if he wishes to remain free, is to do away with me. That’s why I’ve gone into hiding. I hope you understand.”

  He took a piece of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it to Charlie. Upon it was written an address and a telephone number.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s where I’m staying now, The Slug and Cauliflower. It’s a pub, but it has lodgings above. I’m entrusting it to you, Charlotte. If Ferryman puts in another appearance, would you ring the pub? The proprietor will fetch me immediately, and I can be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said.

  “Thank you. And I’m still so dreadfully sorry about the loss of your friend.”

  Charlie was about to correct him, but he turned and walked briskly to the front door.

  “I must be off, Betty!” he called, over his shoulder. “Urgent matters!”

  Betty came out of the kitchen. “But I’ve just made tea….”

  “Terribly sorry, my love. I’ll make it up to you.” He blew her a kiss. “See you tomorrow. Promise.”

  And he was gone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was morning. Shaun could see daylight through the doorway of the shelter, and some of that light was spilling inside. He yawned, and stretched, feeling all of the
discomfort of having slept in his clothes, semi-upright, in an armchair never designed for such a purpose.

  In spite of the electric heater, the shelter was still chilly, and very damp.

  Unkinking his arms and legs and back, Shaun could see that a good deal of blood had seeped out of the place where he had been wounded, and had dried on the bandage overnight. The pain was tolerable, but worse than yesterday.

  He switched off the electric heater and got to his feet.

  • • •

  Shaun knocked on the garden door, but there was still no answer from within.

  A young man with a beard poked his head over the wooden fence on Shaun’s right.

  “Are you looking for Wendy Weller?”

  “I am,” Shaun confirmed.

  “I haven’t seen her since yesterday. She mentioned she’d probably be late today. Something to do with her granddaughter’s school.”

  “Do you know Wendy’s son?”

  “I know of him,” the young man replied. “Nicholas, isn’t it?”

  Shaun was in two minds how next to proceed. If Wendy did not recognize him, then it was highly likely he would receive the same reaction from Nick. However, while Wendy was a sceptic of the highest order when it came to time travelling, Nick had made it his preoccupation.

  “I am Shaun Deeley,” he said. “I am an old friend of Nick’s, however I have not seen him in some time, and I thought I might surprise him with a visit.”

  “Andy Wiggins,” the young man replied, extending his hand over the fence.

  Shaun shook it. “Do you know where Wandsworth University is located?”

  “I’ve got a good idea.”

  “Excellent.” Shaun paused. “Might you have at your disposal a means of transportation…?”

  • • •

  Andy Wiggins was a professional photographer. In fact, he had produced the book Shaun had seen in the window of the shop that had once belonged to Betty’s father. The pictorial history of Balham. The seats of his Audi were packed with copies in cardboard boxes.

  “A personal project,” he explained, making room for Shaun. “I published it myself. I’m very fond of the past.”

  He gave Shaun a small piece of cardboard. One side was a replica of the cover of the picture book, showing Balham Underground Station. The other side contained information about how to locate Andy by telephone and e-mail, and also directed people to his website.

  “And here we are,” he said, stopping outside Wandsworth University and calling up the directions he had researched on his clever phone. “Through the main gates, across the quadrangle, down the little lane beside the main library, and there’s your physics building.”

  He showed Shaun the map.

  “Dr. Nicholas Weller, Professor of Theoretical Physics. 541B. I’d hazard a guess his office is on the fifth floor. If you get lost I’m sure someone will point you in the right direction.”

  “In theory,” Shaun said, humorously.

  “Oh, ha ha! Very good! You’ll be all right on your own?”

  “Yes. Many thanks for your assistance.”

  “Not a problem. If I see Wendy I’ll tell her you were looking for her.”

  Shaun, wisely, refrained from further comment and climbed out of the car.

  • • •

  The office door was slightly open, and he could see that Nick was sitting behind his desk, working at his computer. He was as Shaun remembered him, down to his habit of wearing brightly patterned shirts which had their origins in a South Sea island known as Hawaii. And there was a walking cane propped against the wall.

  Shaun knocked upon the door. Nick looked up from his screen and then beckoned him inside.

  “Good morning,” Shaun said.

  “Morning. How can I help you?”

  “Do you know me, sir?”

  “I don’t think so. Should I?”

  “Perhaps not,” Shaun said, treading carefully. “I am Shaun Deeley. Is the name, at least, familiar to you?”

  “It isn’t, I’m afraid. Are you a student here?”

  “I met your mother yesterday. I had harboured a hope that she might have mentioned me to you.”

  Nick looked amused. “Sorry,” he said. “Any particular reason why she would…?”

  “In the time and place that I have come from,” Shaun said, “you and I are very well-acquainted…. And in that time and place, you are much interested in the theories of travelling in space and time, and also the habits of sprites and tachyons and massive electrical charges.”

  “Yes, that is the main focus of my research. But… sorry… in the time and place that you’ve come from…?”

  “Yes. Stoneford. In the present. But it is not the present you and I currently inhabit. Certain individuals are… missing. Your aunt, for one. Jackie Duran. And her daughter, Charlotte. And your sister, Natasha.”

  Nick leaned back in his chair and observed Shaun with a quizzical look.

  “Either you’ve been put up to this by one of my students… and I have my suspicions who… or….” He paused. “What is it you actually want?”

  “I wish to return to my time and place,” Shaun said. “And I had hoped you might assist me.”

  Nick seemed to be assessing the information Shaun had provided to him.

  “I would not blame you if you dismissed me outright,” Shaun added. “Your mother had much the same reaction yesterday.”

  “And you and I are well-acquainted in this other universe…?”

  “In fact, you and I are the closest of friends. You are the first cousin of Charlotte Duran. You were friends, also, with her husband, Jeff Lowe, who was killed in a traffic accident five years ago. The accident damaged your leg, and rendered you lame.”

  “I was injured in an accident five years ago, and Jeff Lowe was driving the car… and he was killed. But he wasn’t married to anyone called Charlotte Duran. He wasn’t married at all, in fact.” He paused. “That traffic accident was widely reported. Anything else that might convince me you’ve come from a parallel universe?”

  Shaun thought for a moment, then put his hands into the pockets of Bert Singleton’s best Sunday trousers and withdrew the box of Swan Vesta matches and the three used bus tickets.

  “I am wearing the clothing that belonged to your great-grandfather, Bert Singleton,” he said. “These trousers were loaned to me by his daughter—your grandmother, Betty—in the year 1940. Her father smoked a pipe, and these are the matches he used to light it. It seems he also undertook at least three journeys by bus… and here is the proof. These are not articles from the present.”

  “They aren’t,” Nick agreed, examining the bus tickets, and the box of Swan Vestas. “They’re not really proof, though, either… are they? You could have picked these up anywhere. They could be very good replicas….”

  “I assure you, they are not.”

  “Assuming your story is real… sorry, what did you say your name was?”

  “Shaun Deeley.”

  “Assuming your story is true, Mr. Deeley, my research is all theoretical. I’ve never met anyone from the past—or the future—and I’ve certainly never been able to influence travel to or from anywhere, other than the old-fashioned kind involving timetables and trains. Or planes and cars. And occasionally ships. It would take me months to try and work out a way to help you.”

  • • •

  “You again,” Wendy said, opening Betty’s front door in response to Shaun’s urgent knock. “I thought I’d made it clear—oh. Hello Nick.”

  “Morning,” Nick said. “Can we come in?”

  Wendy paused, and then stood aside.

  “I must confess to you,” said Shaun, “that I spent last night in the air raid shelter at the bottom of your garden. I know I was trespassing. However, I had no means to pay for lodgings. I hope you will forgive me.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t just fly away—or whatever it is you do—back to your own time.”

  “I am, alas, unable
to ‘fly away,’ Mrs. Weller. I would gladly do so, however I am without knowledge of the mechanism that might accomplish it.”

  “And you believe him?” Wendy said, to her son.

  “I’ve given him the benefit of doubt,” Nick answered. “He tells me there’s something in the shelter we ought to see.”

  • • •

  “Here we are,” Shaun said, placing the suitcase upon the dining table.

  He removed his overcoat, easing his injured arm through the sleeve.

  “That looks worse than yesterday,” Wendy said, seeing the bloodstained bandages. “Let me change the dressing for you.”

  She went upstairs.

  “A nurse first and foremost,” Nick said. “Even if she does believe you’re Doctor Who’s evil cousin. How did that happen?”

  “I do not know,” Shaun said. “And this confounds me greatly.”

  Wendy came back with fresh bandages and a bottle of antiseptic, which she placed on the table beside the suitcase.

  “Sit down,” she said, going into the kitchen for a bowl of warm water. “And I’ll have that case on the floor, if you don’t mind. It’s covered in mildew.”

  Shaun placed the suitcase under the table, and then Wendy gently stripped away the blood-soaked dressing, bathed Shaun’s arm, and applied the antiseptic.

  “I’ve never met a time traveller before,” Nick said, sitting across from Shaun.

  “Oh, well,” Wendy said, busily. “Something to tell your grandchildren, then. This one comes from 1825. Where he apparently fell in love with Charlotte, who is the daughter of the older sister I never had. And apparently, you saved both of their lives.”

  “Did I?” Nick said. “How did I manage that?”

  “By facilitating our journey from 1825 to the present,” Shaun said. “As I recall, it was your knowledge of the atmosphere which became paramount. Specifically, the employment of a lightning strike to recreate the conditions which had resulted in Charlotte’s original journey from the present, back through time.”