Elizabeth looked to Simon in panic. He merely smiled and lingered behind.
She turned back to George. “Not exactly,” she said, trying to buy time. “But I did meet Buffalo Bill once.”
“The cowboy?” George said excitedly.
And with that Simon knew he’d lost them.
~~~
Victor followed the man until he knocked on a nondescript doorway on Commercial Road. He waited there and a minute later a big, bull of a man opened the door. From his vantage point across the street, Victor could just see inside. He knew the look, the smoke, the bad piano playing, and the women walking back and forth through it all in a daze.
A whorehouse.
The big man hesitated and then finally stepped aside letting the other man inside. Victor took out his pipe and pushed a finger in the bowl to re-secure the plug of tobacco. If it had been elsewhere, he might have followed the man inside. But not here. A woman’s touch was always welcome, but the prostitutes of Whitechapel brought sadness, not comfort. Not to mention, crabs.
Victor contented himself with his pipe, sure the man would not last long. He was right although not for the reasons he’d suspected. Twenty minutes later, the little man was bodily escorted from the premises and tossed, quite literally, out of the door and onto his ear.
Pushing himself up, he stood on wobbly legs and rubbed his jaw.
“You stay outta ‘ere, Pizer!” the big man threatened. “Next time I’ll knock your block off.”
And with that he slammed the door.
So it was Pizer, Victor thought. He’d suspected the man might be John Pizer, a boot maker who was better known for his nickname, Leather Apron, and a very viable suspect.
Pizer picked up his hat from a puddle it had fallen into and shook it off. Still sopping wet, he pulled it down onto his head and started to stumble down the street.
Victor followed him to another bar, the Ten Bells. There, Pizer argued with another man briefly.
“They say it’s a Jew,” he said, his voice thick with drink.
“They say everyfink bad that ‘appens ‘ere is a cause of a Jew!” the other man agreed loudly.
Pizer nodded before telling his friend what he thought of the local police in colorful and barely understandable English.
“Shaddup!” a man at a nearby table said.
Pizer started to stand, but the other man reached out and shoved him. He was already so far gone, he probably passed out before he hit the floor.
“All right, all right,” his friend said as he surrendered to the angry customer. He helped Pizer back up into a chair and left him to sleep it off at the table.
“They’ll pin it on somebody,” a woman at another table said. “You can bet on that.”
“They won’t be spendin’ time tryin’ to solve no murder of the likes of us,” her friend said with a sneer.
Then she affected a middle class accent. “Scotland Yard is looking into it, love.” Then she laughed. “My arse, they are!”
Her friend cackled. “Lookin’ into your arse. That wouldn’t be the first now would it, Annie?”
Another woman at the table joined in. As she spoke, Victor noticed that she was missing all of the teeth in her lower left jaw. “No one cares what becomes of us. Least of all the rousers. They’s just in someone’s pocket, that’s all. It’s thems that you got to look out for.”
Annie, a tough looking little woman with a fresh black eye said, “You should know, Lizzy.”
Lizzy. Annie. Victor had to wonder. Were these two of Ripper’s victims? They fit the descriptions he’d read, but then so did hundreds of other women here.
Lizzy grinned and pushed back in her chair. “Oh, I do, my dearie. I do. But we’ve got a plan for them, ain’t we?”
Annie and the other woman laughed. “A pretty little plan.”
Chapter Twelve
THE PARTY WAS A sort of social bumper cars—aimlessly circling, randomly bumping into people only to veer off and collide with someone else. Having mastered the aristocratic air of indifference so well, Simon glided through it all effortlessly.
It took Elizabeth a little longer to get into the flow. While she and Simon had spent a fair share of time on their missions with the upper crust, it always started out the same way for her. A little unsure. After all, pre-Simon she had no crust at all.
And this wasn’t just a fancy dress party; it was one step from Buckingham Palace. But, she told herself, she could do this. She took a cleansing breath.
Simon, always attuned to her, leaned down and whispered. “They’re just people, Elizabeth. With sticks up their arses, but just people.”
Elizabeth laughed, relaxing.
The house was owned by the Marquess of Kildare: Gerald FitzGerald, 5th Duke of Leinster, which, she realized belatedly, was one person. According to George, the land had initially been part of the grounds of St. James’ Palace and later, when the first house was built, the town residence of the Prince Regent. Eventually, it was sold, demolished and turned into the two enormous white stucco terraced-buildings they were now.
Enormous hardly did them justice. They were four stories high with grand terraces on each side, one with a perfect view of the park. The outside was nearly as opulent as the inside.
The party spilled from the main downstairs salon through the elegant domed entry hall, up the grand double-staircase, complete with statues in alcoves and into the main ballroom. So far, she’d met a duke, a viscount, a baron, a couple of earls and fistful of knights, and they’d only just arrived.
Now this was a party.
The dresses ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous and beyond. It seemed that the more fabric and layers you displayed, the higher up the food chain you were. It was a wonder some of the women could move at all.
George led them around, introducing them to all and sundry, as a small orchestra played in the corner. Most of the guests were gracious, although there were a few who found an American among them, an American woman reporter at that, discomfiting. Lord Salisbury had been most put off. It was all Elizabeth could do not to say how much she loved his steaks just to see the look on his face.
An artist named Sickert was busy doing sketches in the corner—capturing his subject’s dual nature by drawing two separate faces for them, their Jekyll and Hyde, much to everyone’s amusement. Both Simon and Elizabeth passed on that, but there was quite a crowd gathering.
They had almost reached the end of their first circuit when George smiled and waved them toward two men talking in the corner. She recognized one as Montague John Druitt. The other was more whiskers than man, with a large belly that strained his pearl grey waistcoat.
As they approached, Elizabeth overheard the tail end of their conversation.
“You should regularly,” the whiskered man said with a slightly scolding tone. “…an appointment tomorrow afternoon.”
Druitt nodded. “Yes, especially after mother, I—”
Both of them stopped talking as they realized they weren’t alone and their serious countenances instantly changed to the same isn’t it a delight? expression everyone seemed to assume when they came across a new person.
“John,” George said, shaking hands with his friend.
The other man seemed glad to see him, but perhaps a little embarrassed as well.
“Doctor,” George said, extending his hand to the whiskered man who humphed and shook the offered hand quickly. The doctor then turned his attention to Simon and Elizabeth, and coughed in a not so gentle reproof of George’s lack of manners.
“Oh, forgive me,” George said. “Dr. Blackwood, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Simon Cross?”
Dr. Blackwood. He was another one of the names on the suspect list. Between the doctor and Druitt, they’d hit the perfecta.
The doctor eyed them warily for a split-second before extending his hand.
“It’s Sir Simon, actually,” Simon said, not unkindly, and earning a warmer reception from the doctor.
�
��Oh,” George said. “Are you?”
Simon arched an eyebrow in an English shrug.
George looked questioningly at Elizabeth.
“Never came up,” she said.
George smiled, amused. “We usually lead with that sort of thing here,” he said before getting back to the introductions at the end of which, he asked permission to pull Druitt away, leaving them alone with the doctor and his whiskers.
Elizabeth couldn’t endure the awkward silence. “So, what sort of doctor are you?”
The man frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“She means, what do you specialize in?” Simon clarified.
“Diseases of the mind. It is the most misunderstood and mysterious part of the human anatomy. Delirium, derangement, melancholia. What some would simply call madness. I suppose that’s in keeping with tonight’s theme of madness,” he said looking rather pleased with himself. Elizabeth smiled politely, encouraging him. He didn’t need much.
“The study of the mind with my methods is a rather new branch of medicine. We’ve made incredible strides in the last decade, but the established medical community, is, well, not prepared to embrace them fully just yet.”
“Could I interview you for my paper back home?” Elizabeth asked seeing an opening. “I’m a part-time reporter and I’d love to bring them back a story like this.”
Worried she’d made her move too soon, she did the only logical thing and plunged ahead full-speed. She raised her hands in the air and moved them across in front of her as though highlighting an invisible marquee. “A Great Man of Science Makes Great Strides Across the Ocean.”
The doctor seemed surprised and definitely flattered, but hesitant. “I’m not certain it’s—”
“I’ll write it,” she said. “And if you don’t like it, we won’t use it. I’ll tear it up in front of you.”
He looked to be considering it.
Elizabeth dipped into what she could remember about newspapers of the day. When she’d decided to use that as a cover story, she’d done a bit of quick research. Don’t fail me, Google.
“I think Mr. Pulitzer would like it very much,” she said.
The name drop had the desired effect.
“Pulitzer? You work for The World?”
Was that Pulitzer’s paper? For a moment, she couldn’t remember. “In a way, don’t we all?” she said lightly, casting a quick, nervous glance at Simon.
“It’s really much easier simply to acquiesce, Doctor,” Simon said.
He still looked undecided.
“Once she gets an idea for a story, there’s no stopping it,” Simon continued. “It will either be about you or one of your colleagues, I’m afraid.”
That kicked the old buzzard over the fence.
“Very well,” Blackwood agreed. “Perhaps you can come by the hospital this week? I can probably spare a few minutes.”
“Very gracious of you, Doctor.” Elizabeth grinned. “I’d like that very much.”
“Tell me, Doctor, as a man who studies madness,” Simon said. “What do you think of this recent business in the East End? Work of a madman?”
Blackwood tugged on one end of his mustache. “Oh, that?” he said, disinterested. “Well—”
Before he could respond further, his attention was pulled away by a servant, possibly a footman, standing nearby expectantly.
“Yes?” Blackwood said a little irritably.
The man bowed quickly. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, Dr. Blackwood, but someone delivered this.”
He held out a white gloved hand and a folded piece of paper. The doctor harrumphed and took it.
“They said it was urgent, sir,” the man explained.
“You’ll excuse me,” Blackwood said as he turned to read the note. After a moment, he looked back at the man who’d brought the note. He seemed almost angry. “Send for my carriage.”
With another quick bow the man was gone. The doctor’s face pinched as he re-read the note.
“Is everything all right?” Elizabeth asked.
The doctor looked up at her, distracted for a moment, and then nodded and tucked the note into his pocket. “Fine,” he said. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
He was lying. Elizabeth was sure of it.
He turned to face them properly and held out his hand. “A pleasure meeting you. If you’ll come by the hospital, I’ll be glad to discuss my work with you. I’m at London Hospital. Whitechapel.”
She and Simon watched him go.
“Whitechapel,” Elizabeth whispered and looked up at Simon.
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
Just as Elizabeth was about to suggest they shove off and find George, and hopefully Druitt, she spotted George coming toward them through the crowd, alone.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I hope the doctor didn’t bore you to death with his research.”
“No, it was actually quite interesting,” she said.
George looked at her blankly, as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing, before shaking his head. “Well, I’m glad you thought so.”
He craned his neck, searching the crowd. “There are some people I’d like you to meet. Americans actually,” he said.
“Adding to your collection,” Elizabeth said with a smile.
George laughed. “I think you’ll like them. Interesting sorts. Ah, there.”
He gestured for them to walk with him. The center of the ballroom was filled with couples dancing and so they skirted along the perimeter. It was beautiful. The light from the massive chandeliers, which had actual candles in them, was soft and inviting. There was even a fire burning in a large oversized hearth. The walls on the perimeters of the room were covered with huge portraits.
Eventually, they approached a couple who were admiring a painting of the Duke of Wellington, who looked positively resplendent in his snazzy red uniform.
When they reached them, George cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but these are the Crosses I mentioned.”
He looked back toward Simon and Elizabeth as the couple turned around. “May I introduce you to Charles Graham and Katherine Vale?”
~~~
“Hello?”
Victor shifted in his chair and pulled his attention away from the conversation at the next table.
“I am not—” he started to say, expecting to see another of the usual prostitutes, tired and toothless, but was surprised to find a younger woman, tall, not exactly pretty, but attractive with blonde hair and sad blue eyes.
“Can I set with ye?” she asked with the classic singsong tones of Cornish accent.
He looked around the pub and it was packed by now. The chair at his table was one of the few left. Reluctantly, he nodded.
She smiled broadly. “Cheers,” she said and sat down before he could change his mind. “Are ye new here?”
“Yes,” he said and turned his attention to the rest of the bar. The last thing he wanted was to get involved in…anything.
“You’re French!”
He glanced back at her and nodded again.
“I lived in Paris fer a bit. Beautiful,” she said, her face dreamy with the memory. “I took to Paris, but it didn’t take to me.”
She laughed, and it wasn’t bitter, but resigned.
“What’s yer name?” she asked. “I’m…Marie. Marie Jeannette.”
“Victor,” he said, barely meeting her eyes, hoping she would get the hint.
“That’s a nice name.” She scooted her chair a little closer and finger walked her hand across the table until it landed on his. “Buy a girl a drink?”
Reluctantly, Victor followed the line of her arm up to her face. She was still young enough, still fresh enough to escape this life. She almost looked like a younger girl pretending to be grown up.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-five.”
He wasn’t sure he believed her, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Victor sighed and slid a penny acro
ss the table. “Buy yourself some food.”
She looked down at the coin. “I’m cheap, but I’m not that—”
“I don’t want anything.”
She looked at him oddly, and before he could change his mind, swept the penny off the table and into her hand. For a moment, some sort of emotion filled her eyes, but she forced a cocky smile to her face.
She turned toward the door. “Billy,” she said brightly, and with one last look at him, regret or confusion, Victor could not say, and she stood and hurried toward the young man who’d just come in.
He grabbed her about the waist and stole a kiss that she tried to half-heartedly squirm out of. Victor watched her for a moment and then put her out of his mind. He refocused on the task at hand. Pizer snored loudly, still asleep at his table and probably wouldn’t wake until morning. The rest of the crowd was winding up for a long night.
Another woman, this one with bright red hair, sidled up to his table, bumping into it as she did and laughing as his drink sloshed in its glass.
“Is this seat taken?” she slurred with a half-toothless grin.
“No,” he said.
She pulled out the wooden chair and flopped down into it.
Victor stood. “They are both free,” he said as he downed what was left of his beer. “Goodnight,” he said to her shocked expression.
He left Ten Bells, almost managing not to look back at Marie as she sat on Billy’s lap and laughed at something he said.
The streets were wet and a cold drizzle rolled down the back of his neck. He put on his cap and flipped up the collar of his coat. He looked down the dark street. Small gas flames struggled in the rain. Stepping off the curb, he started toward the next pub in line.
Chapter Thirteen
ELIZABETH WAS SURE SHE stopped breathing or all of the air had left the room, or both, as Katherine Vale stood in front them. Like a dolly zoom in a Hitchcock movie, the room around her seemed to blur and distort, moving past her while Vale stood highlighted and unmoving, unnatural.
A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7) Page 9
