Stansbury shrugged. “The doctor’s expertise…”
“No,” Blackwood said quickly. “An interview. Mrs. Cross works for an American newspaper. Wants to do a feature on my work.”
“You shouldn’t encourage that sort of…behavior, Robert,” Stansbury said.
Simon felt his blood pressure rise again. “And what behavior is that?”
Stansbury fixed him with his most disapproving glare. “Moving beyond her place.”
“Her place?” Simon said. He knew that misogyny was typical of the time, but this was just too much.
“It’s quite well-known that women are inferior both physically and mentally,” Stansbury said. He turned to Dr. Blackwell. “Surely, you’ve found that to be the case in your studies.”
The doctor nodded, but hedged. “Women are more fragile, yes.”
Graham shook his head and frowned. “Maybe it’s because I’m an American and a little more progressive—”
Stansbury snorted.
Graham continued, “But I couldn’t disagree more.”
“I would expect no less from you,” Stansbury said in a dismissive tone. “Your women are practically as wild as those savages you pretend to tame.”
He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “No, women are best kept in the background of politics and industry.”
“They are not well-suited to those tasks,” Blackwood agreed. “Motherhood and companionship—”
Graham caught Simon’s eye and cleared his throat. “Just so I’m clear,” he said turning to Stansbury. “You think women are inferior and should stay out of messy things like politics.”
Stansbury inclined his head.
“Forgive me,” Graham continued, “but that seems an odd position for a man whose country is led by a woman. Or do you think the Queen is inferior and frail of mind as well?”
Stansbury spluttered. “That’s entirely different.”
“Is it?” Graham said, clearly enjoying Stansbury’s discomfiture. He turned to Simon and added, “Perhaps your wife can add that to the story.”
Simon smiled, impressed with the deft way Graham had maneuvered Stansbury.
The older man glared at them both and then pushed back his chair. With a final indignant humph he left the table. Blackwood looked almost apologetic as he stood and followed, leaving Graham and Simon alone at the table.
Graham smiled and raised his glass. “Like shooting grouse.”
Simon chuckled and raised his glass of Claret. He was beginning to like Graham very much.
Finally, the luncheon part of the lunch was over and the men retired to one of the smoking rooms.
Like so many others, the club was a relatively small, intimate affair in what was once a private residence in the heart of Mayfair. Several hundred members paid several hundred pounds to escape their wives and their lives. Two of the three stories had been converted for gaming, socializing, reading, eating, drinking, smoking and generally being anywhere other than home or office.
The smoking room was decorated much as the rest, dark woods and lighter ceilings, leather chairs and crystal chandeliers. Decadent, but not gaudy. It was the epitome of the wealthy bachelor’s home without a trace of a woman’s touch.
The notion turned Simon’s thoughts to Elizabeth. He wondered how she was faring back the hotel. God knew what trouble she’d manage to get into left to her own devices, he thought with a smile. Given their circumstances, he hated to be away from her, even for these few hours, but they would have to do that and more if they were to solve this mystery.
Simon carefully lingered on the periphery of the smoking room as everyone found their place, making sure he could float freely to the area George and Druitt occupied. He’d spent a little time with Druitt before lunch, but not nearly enough to get a feel for the man.
Finally, Simon settled into a large leather chair opposite them and listened, letting them carry the conversation. Druitt seemed an unlikely suspect. He was well-spoken, amiable, if a little melancholic. Apparently, he was quite the cricket player and enjoyed lively political debate. Although, when he was alone with George, Simon realized, the topics shifted to more subdued things, literature and the arts. The two spoke at length about the Romantics, Keats and Shelly. Hardly the stuff Simon imagined to be coursing through Jack the Ripper’s mind.
It was difficult to imagine Druitt committing such heinous acts. But then it was difficult to imagine any man doing the things that had been and would be done. Although, he thought as he shifted his attention to Dr. Blackwood, who sat nearby, some seemed more likely than others.
“Virginia’s condition is unchanged,” he said as he took a sip of brandy and then sat back in his chair, lacing his hands across his belly.
A tall thin man named Morgan, who’d been sitting at the far end of the table during lunch, looked at the doctor sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that, Robert.”
Blackwood grunted. “I had hoped for improvement with the last treatment, but…”
“Well, if anyone can find a cure,” Morgan said, raising his glass in salute. “I’d be dashed if Claire suffered so.”
The doctor grunted again, his hands bouncing slightly on his belly
“Are you married?” Morgan said, politely folding Simon into the conversation. “Cross, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Simon. “On both counts.”
“She’s a reporter,” Blackwood said in with the arch of an amused and slightly disapproving brow.
Morgan, if he felt the same way, didn’t show it. “A lady reporter? The times are changing, aren’t they?”
Simon dipped his head in agreement.
“Too quickly for me, I’m afraid,” Morgan said and then held up a hand to ward off any misconception. “Not that I’m against progress, mind you. It’s just that I feel as though the world is a raging river and I’m stuck on the shore, unable to swim.”
He gave a small self-deprecating laugh. “That’s never been a problem for you though, has it, Robert? Always at the forefront.”
Blackwood smiled modestly, or at least what he seemed to consider modestly. Simon wasn’t sure the man was capable of it in any sincere form. “Science, by its very nature, must advance or it ceases to be relevant.”
“Quite so,” Morgan agreed.
“The treatments you mentioned,” Simon said. “Are those part of your work?”
Blackwood shook his head and thoughtfully twisted the end of his mustache. “No, no. For my wife. She is an invalid.”
Simon was surprised at the offhand way the doctor said it. The thought of Elizabeth suffering from such a fate made his stomach tense.
“I’m sorry.”
Blackwood sighed and Simon could see the frustration in his eyes.
“Has she been ill long?” Simon asked.
“Several years.”
Morgan leaned forward. “It must be terribly difficult. On both of you.”
Blackwood nodded. “It is for her, of course.”
“She was a lovely girl,” Morgan said to Simon and then added hastily, “still is, of course. I didn’t mean—”
Blackwood waved the apology away. Abruptly, he seemed to have had his fill of the subject and checked his watch. He closed it with a snap before sliding it back into his vest pocket.
“I’m afraid I must return to hospital,” he said as he stood.
“Surely you can have—” Morgan began.
“No,” Blackwood said abruptly. The shift in his demeanor was abrupt and disconcerting.
He turned to Simon. “Cross.”
Simon nodded. “Doctor.”
With that Blackwood bowed and took his leave.
“You’ll have to forgive him,” Morgan said as Blackwood left. “It’s terrible what they’ve been through. She was so vibrant and now…” He trailed off and shook his head.
Simon nodded. “What happened to her?”
“Dashed if I know. She just took ill one day. And I’m afraid, she’s been in declining
health ever since. In and out of hospital, traveling looking for all sorts of cures. Man worships her. Must be terribly lonely for him.”
Simon nodded and tucked that bit of information away. Lonely enough to drive him to visit other women, he wondered. The man did work in Whitechapel as well.
Issues with women, both at home and in general. Druitt might be less appealing as a suspect, but the doctor was looking more and more interesting. Although, it was a rather large leap to assume he was serial killer.
Simon sighed and took a sip of his port. At least the wine was good.
Graham, who had been sitting with a man Simon hadn’t spoken to, rose and walked over to the window. He stood there looking out at the city and Simon excused himself to join him.
Graham turned to him and smiled in greeting before turning back to the view. “It’s a wonderful city. So…alive.”
Simon had to agree. Although London was filled with personal ghosts and ambivalent memories, he did love the city. Today, miraculously, the sun was shining. But it would set and the darkness would come again and in just a few days, Ripper would strike again.
As loath as Simon was to ask for help, after the debacle of their last foray into Whitechapel, he knew he’d be a fool to ignore the help Graham could provide. Not to mention that they’d inevitably run into each other during their investigations and their fascination with Ripper would be hard to explain away. Even with Elizabeth cast as a nosy reporter, there was a limit to what they could learn if they didn’t tell Graham the truth.
Victor would no doubt not approve of his choice to involve Graham. It was a risk, but one Simon deemed worth the taking. And now, it seemed, was as good a time as any to broach the subject.
Simon lowered his voice. “Do you think we could we talk privately?”
Graham seemed surprised, but agreed.
Simon turned back to the main room. Everyone was deeply involved in discussion. He doubted they’d even be missed. Having remembered passing a small reading salon adjacent to the smoking room, Simon gestured for Graham to follow him.
Once he and Graham were in the salon, he closed the doors behind them.
Graham stood in the middle of the room and looked at him with concern. “Is something wrong?”
“You could say that,” Simon said.
Graham watched him expectantly. Simon reached into his pocket and held out the watch in the palm of his hand.
Graham arched an eyebrow. “The Council?”
“Yes,” Simon said as he put the watch back in his pocket.
Graham laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll admit, I didn’t see that one coming. Why did they send you? Has something gone wrong?”
Simon knew he had to tread carefully here. “I need your help. There has been an incident.”
Graham laughed again. “You’re definitely with the Council. Why speak when double-speak will do? You sound like Travers.”
“There’s no need to be insulting,” Simon said with a small smile. “I am sorry though. I can tell you some of it, but…
Graham frowned, but then sighed and waved a hand. “It’s all right. I understand. They have their reasons, I suppose.”
“It’s complicated.”
Graham chuckled to himself. “Isn’t it always?”
His attention fell on a nearby drink cart. “Sherry?” he asked as he moved to pour himself one.
“No, thank you.”
Graham poured himself a glass. He turned back to Simon and took a sip. “Sweet. A small vice,” he said with a smile and gestured toward two chairs.
Simon sat down in one of the leather wingbacks and waited for Graham to do the same.
“So, what can you tell me?” Graham asked as he put his glass aside.
Simon leaned back in his chair. “Not much, I’m afraid. Our mission is…related to the Jack the Ripper case.”
Graham nodded. “I assumed as much.”
“I can’t go into any specifics, but it’s very important that we find him,” Simon said. “Do you know who he is?”
Graham opened his mouth and then paused. His brow furrowed. “No, I’m ashamed to say. The foremost expert and I don’t know the one thing that really matters.”
Simon’s heart sank. He’d hoped it would be simple, but he should have known nothing related to the Council was ever simple. “You didn’t go to the crime scene?”
Graham put a hand to his neck and rubbed the skin beneath his chin. “I did. Kat had turned her ankle and so she stayed behind. I was even there quite early, hid in alleyway. But, I’m afraid, from my vantage point, I couldn’t get a good look at him, couldn’t see his face.”
He shook his head and smiled apologetically. “I wanted to. I’d dreamt of that moment so many times, but when it happened, when I had the opportunity….I was…afraid. I’m not ashamed to admit. When I recovered myself enough, it was too late.”
He looked down at his hands and rubbed hard at his palm with his thumb. “I’d read about it so many times, I thought I was prepared.” He looked up helplessly. “It was horrific.”
Simon could imagine, and he felt for the man, but there wasn’t time to dwell on any of that. “You couldn’t make out anything about him?”
“He was a good thirty feet away and with his back turned.”
Simon nodded, disappointed.
Graham looked at him curiously. “You didn’t go yourself?”
Simon grunted. “We tried. Fate had other ideas.”
Graham picked up his sherry glass and looked into it. “You must have some theories though as to who it might be. You don’t strike me as the sort to come unprepared.”
“A few suspects,” Simon conceded.
Graham took a sip. “Any in particular?”
“It’s early days, but I have to admit, Dr. Blackwood is near the top.”
Graham pointed a finger in the air and set his glass down. “Blackwood. Now, that is interesting. And,” he said, as if seeing something for the first time, “the man I saw was roughly his height. Difficult to say from that distance, but I do think the man’s clothes were far finer than the so-called eye witness accounts would have us believe. I’m assuming you’ve read them.”
“I have, although,” he admitted, “I did not have long to study them.”
Graham smiled. “That’s all right. I’ve got it all up here,” he said, tapping his temple. “The only person who knows as much as I do about the case is the murderer himself.”
“Good,” Simon said.
“I’m not sure it’s related, of course,” Graham said, “but I did notice a coach that night. I thought it a bit odd to see one so late at night there, but it was several blocks from the scene.”
“Can you describe it?”
Graham laughed. “It was a coach. Black.” He frowned and squinted as if trying to see a memory more clearly. “I think it had yellow wheels. I wasn’t very close to it, but…”
“Something to consider,” Simon said.
Simon was disappointed he hadn’t learned more about the Ripper’s identity, but at least it was a comfort to know that he could work with Graham moving forward. Between them, surely they’d be able to discover the identity. But there was still one problem.
He had to tread carefully here. “It might,” Simon continued, “be better if no one else knew about Elizabeth’s and my involvement.”
“Who would I tell?” Graham said. It was only after Simon’s pointed look that he connected the dots. “Oh, no one?”
He pursed his lips in thought and at least seemed to be considering it.
“Katherine,” Simon said. “I have to ask—is this her first mission? She seems rather young.”
Graham cleared his throat. “Yes, it is. I recruited her actually. Found her at a university.”
Simon smiled, but didn’t mention the parallel to his finding Elizabeth. That was, after all, where the similarities between them ceased.
“She’s a bit green,” Graham said, “I’ll grant you tha
t. And hasn’t taken to it quite as I’d expected, but I don’t like the idea of keeping something from her. We’re…involved.”
Simon practically bit his tongue to keep from saying what he wanted to. Dear Lord, man, the woman is a psychotic; run as far and as fast as you can. Knowing how he would react to something like that if their roles were reversed, Simon kept on a more subtle tack.
“Obviously, I can’t keep you from telling her, but the nature of our mission is delicate. It requires a steady hand. Her inexperience…She could put us all at risk without even realizing it.”
Graham’s frown deepened. He started to speak when a knock on the door interrupted him.
The door opened and the house steward, a tall, thin hawk-nosed man, appeared there and bowed. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Sir Simon, but there is a…boy here to see you.”
The way he said boy made it clear he considered it a generous appellation.
“Says he has a message for you,” the steward continued. “I tried to take it from him, but he insists on giving it you personally.”
Simon nodded and stood. “Thank you.”
“Trouble?” Graham asked.
It was either from Elizabeth or Victor; neither bode well. “Probably.”
The steward escorted them downstairs to the servants’ entrance at the back of the club. Freddie stood at the bottom of the steps, staring up admiringly at the house.
When he saw Simon, he took off his cap and dug a note out of his pocket. Wiping his running nose with one hand, he held out the note to Simon with the other. “From the missus.”
“Do not touch anything,” the steward said from the top of the stairs.
Freddie looked at him unflinchingly and rubbed his gooey hand up and down the wrought iron railing.
Graham chuckled and interceded as the steward strode forward to discipline the boy.
“It’s all right,” Graham said, putting himself between them. “We can handle it from here.”
The steward narrowed his eyes in warning at the boy and then went back inside.
Simon took the note and read it. Damn that woman. He should have known she wouldn’t just sit still. He was sure she hadn’t passed a day in her life waiting for anything.
With a sigh, he dipped into his pocket, took out a coin, and gave it to Freddie. “No reply.”
A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7) Page 11
