Freddie put his cap back on. “Right, sir.”
With one more defiant lift of his chin at the grand house, he hurried off down the street back to his post at the hotel.
“Trouble?” Graham asked again.
Simon sighed and refolded the note. “It’s from my wife.”
“I take that as a yes.”
Simon looked at him questioningly.
“You’re not the first married man to have that look on his face.”
Simon nodded. “It seems my wife and your Katherine have gone to see a presentation.”
“Blavatsky,” Graham said with a snort. “I told her that was nonsense.”
Simon tucked the note into his pocket and looked around for a cab before turning back to Graham. “Not a believer?”
“I prefer my fiction in fiction,” Graham said.
Simon had to agree with that assessment, at least where Blavatsky was concerned. But Madame Blavatsky and her worship of Lucifer, among other things, were the least of his worries. Right now, Elizabeth was out there alone with something far worse—Katherine Vale.
Chapter Fifteen
VICTOR’S STOMACH RUMBLED, BUT for once, not because he was hungry. Just the opposite. He was too full. He’d had enough of nearly rotten fish and very stale bread and had walked to Cheapside to get a real meal. It hadn’t exactly been the stuff of kings, but it would do him well. He would live among the poor, but if he were to keep his wits and his strength, he would need more than the pubs and the carts of Bishopsgate and Whitechapel could provide.
On the way back, he passed people scraping out a living in any way they could. Board men wore large sandwich boards advertising everything from cigars and soaps to bawdy entertainments. They were taunted by street urchins as they walked back and forth. Men painted cards and placards for stores and carts. Women sold flowers and fruit and shoelaces. A man caned chairs and another sold blood purifiers and healing ointments. If they were lucky, they would make just enough to survive.
They came in droves from the country in search of jobs and found only desolation. London was overflowing with people, like too many fish in a barrel. It was too loud, too noisy, too crowded. How he yearned to finish this and go back home where there was air to breathe and no one to bother him.
It would not last though, he knew. Eventually, he would find the quiet as unbearable as this. Everywhere was the same in the end. No matter how the world outside changed, the man he was did not. Travers would call and he would go. Until the day he could not, and then he would finally find peace.
Victor stepped off the curb and into the street without looking, jumping back out of the wagon’s way just in time. He laughed to himself. Apparently, today was not that day. Although, he thought with his customary cheer, the day was still young.
He turned up Shepherd Street toward the Ten Bells when he noticed a disturbance across the street. Two young men, one barely a man at all, were having what they thought was fun at the expense of an older couple. Picking on the weak and vulnerable was an amusement that never seemed to go out of style. Two of the men stood on either side of a wobbly old man, who could barely stand without his cane. They pushed him back and forth between them like a toy. The woman was too weak and too afraid to help, her basket of small wares—cotton, ribbon and bits of tape spilled onto the pavement at her feet.
And no one cared.
People passed by because it was not their problem. They had more than enough problems of their own without finding new ones that offered them nothing but risk. And so the weak and the vulnerable were preyed upon. So it was and so it would always be.
It was not his problem either and yet he felt himself crossing the street and calling out to them.
“That is enough,” he said.
Only one of the men even bothered to notice him. The other kept on playing with his toy, like a spoiled child. Spoiled children needed to be taught manners.
“I said that was enough,” Victor repeated, this time reaching out and pushing one of the men aside.
He stumbled back in surprise. His comrade looked at Victor, not in fear, as it would have been wise to do, but in petulant anger. So very spoiled.
“What’s it to you?” he demanded.
Victor ignored him and turned to the poor old man who was struggling to stand without the aid of his cane. “Are you all right?”
The old man started to answer, but the other interrupted.
“I said—”
Victor’s hand struck out like a coiled snake. His fingers bit into the sides of the man’s throat, cutting off the rest of whatever idiocy he had to offer and whatever air he needed to breath.
The man gasped and clawed helplessly against Victor’s hand.
“You have said enough,” Victor said, tightening his grip for emphasis.
He looked over his shoulder at the other man. He was in a state of shock over the sudden change in their fortune and stood dumbly watching.
Victor turned back to the man in his grip. “You will not bother these people again. Do you understand?”
He waited, and finally the man managed a small nod. Victor released him and he stumbled backwards, gasping for breath. His friend, freed from his stupor, moved to his side.
They both glared at him, but the fear was there now. A good healthy dose of fear.
Victor feinted a step forward and they both flinched and then turned and ran off down the street. When Victor turned around the old woman was helping the man pick up his cane.
“Thank you,” she said in a thick Polish accent. “They have been bothering me for days. My husband came to help, but…”
The old man stood as straight and tall as his bent body would allow.
Victor nodded at him with respect. “A man must stand by his wife.”
The older man looked up at him with a hint of pride, even though embarrassment and anger still colored his cheeks.
“I don’t have much,” the woman said, as she gathered her bits and pieces and put them back into her basket. She held out a piece of blue ribbon, the sort that you might put into a little girl’s hair.
The memory came unbidden and unwanted. Juliette.
Victor closed his eyes briefly and then shook his head. The woman held it out further, her expression entreating him to accept it.
It was like a knife in his heart, but he took it. He felt the smooth fabric between his thumb and forefinger.
“Thank you,” he said and then cleared his throat and put the small piece of ribbon in his pocket.
The old woman smiled at him, and for a moment he wondered if she knew. It was ridiculous, of course, and he pushed the thought away.
The woman turned back to her husband and together they walked down the street. Victor watched them for a moment and then, feeling suddenly foolish, he turned away and started back toward home.
~~~
Elizabeth’s eyes glazed over. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it.
Blavatsky was just as she’d imagined her—small, stout, forceful. But she hadn’t realized the program was not for beginners, but devotees. Half of what the woman said, and that was being generous, made no sense to Elizabeth at all.
“The Secret Doctrine is the accumulated Wisdom of the Ages, and its cosmogony alone is the most stupendous and elaborate system. Even in the exotericism of the Puranas.”
What on earth did that mean? Elizabeth had no idea. She was sure most of the people in the audience had no idea either, but none of them would dare show it.
Spiritualism had taken some lumps recently. Too many frauds caught out, but Blavatsky was more than just a mere psychic; she was the center of a movement, a philosophy that, judging from the crowd, was growing every day. And why not? Who didn’t want to know the secrets of the universe? It had been a compelling selling point for millennia.
The little Russian woman, complete with babushka and hard weathered face, stood center stage in the small auditorium and commanded every eye i
n the house. The thrust of the presentation was to announce the near completion of her second magnum opus, The Secret Doctrine, dictated to her by Mahatmas, a sort of ascended master or spiritual being that had chosen her to bring forth the wisdom of the age. Soon to be available by Random House for $14.95.
As near as Elizabeth could tell, her version of theosophy was a mashup of just about every known religion, some good old-fashioned occultism and a hefty dose of esotericism. She professed knowledge of the seven races of man which included not only Atlantians, but Aryans. All and all the entire experience was giving Elizabeth a headache.
Katherine Vale, on the other hand, was enraptured. It was an odd and disturbing thing to see. The woman sitting next to her was, for all intents and purposes, fairly normal. Sane. Kind. But whether it was a moment that changed her or a seed that grew in the manure they were both listening to, something changed her. Elizabeth hadn’t thought she was capable of feeling compassion for Katherine Vale. But in that auditorium, as she saw the woman who was and knew the woman who she would be, Elizabeth felt pity for her.
Suddenly, the room erupted into applause and Elizabeth realized Blavatsky was finished. Vale clapped loudly and turned to Elizabeth, her eyes full of wonder.
“Amazing, wasn’t it?”
“It was a lot to take in,” Elizabeth managed.
Katherine’s smile broadened. “Yes. There’s some literature at the door that might help.”
Elizabeth smiled politely and then followed Katherine toward the exit. A man at a small table handed out pamphlets. Katherine took two and handed Elizabeth one.
“I think this—”
“Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth flinched. She knew that particular “Elizabeth” and it was one that was relieved, but not happy. Slowly, she turned to see Simon and, to her surprise, Charles Graham.
“Hi,” she said.
Simon started to say something, but thought better of it. Whatever it had been, his frown changed into the sort of smile that melted her heart. The one that said, his world was set right again just because she was in it and nothing else mattered.
She took a step toward him and laid her hand on his chest. “I didn’t mean to worry you, but…” she said casting a glance at Vale who was already enmeshed in conversation with Graham.
Simon nodded his understanding and took her hand in his.
“I’ve told you how I feel about this,” Graham said.
Vale ducked her head and then cast Elizabeth an embarrassed glance. “I don’t see the harm in it. And I have my own mind.”
Graham was clearly frustrated, but forced a smile on his face. “Of course, you do. As it should be. I just,” he added as he took hold of her elbow, “worry about you.”
The gesture and words had the desired effect and Vale’s pique dropped away. “I know,” she said softly, intimately, before seeming to remember they were not alone.
She smiled a bit shyly and then started to pull on her gloves. “So, how was the club?”
Graham gently tapped the thumb side of his fist against his chest twice and grimaced. “Curry.”
Vale laughed lightly. “Anything exciting happen?”
Graham cast a look at Simon before responding with a shake of his head. “No, nothing out of the ordinary.”
Elizabeth looked up at Simon, trying to suss out what that little exchange meant. Simon kept his eyes on Graham, caught his gaze once more and gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement.
Graham turned and stuck out his hand. “Been a pleasure, Cross. I’ll keep you updated if I should learn anything that might be helpful with your business venture.”
Simon shook his hand and thanked him.
Vale came over to Elizabeth. “I hope we can do this again soon.”
“I’m sure we will,” Elizabeth said.
Graham tipped his hat, and he and Vale wound their way out of the auditorium.
“What was that all about?” Elizabeth asked as she watched them go.
“Progress, I hope. Progress.”
Chapter Sixteen
VICTOR ROLLED ONTO HIS side and his arm fell against the empty bed. He groaned as he came awake. Was she up again checking on Juliette? The fever was low. She was such a worrier.
He opened his eyes and his breath caught.
The room was dark and foreign. He sat up in bed, his heart beating faster now, his mind fully awake. Where was she?
Where was he?
“Emilie?”
There was no answer.
He pushed aside the covers, and they felt wrong in his hand. Rough and damp.
“Emelie!” he said again, his voice rising with the fear that started to clutch his heart.
He bumped into a small chair and it fell to the floor. Where was he? This was not their home. He strode over to the doorway, his eyes now adjusted to the dark and he pulled it open—a dimly lit hallway and stairs. What was going on here?
He turned back into the room and heard a noise outside his window. He hurried to it and saw two men driving a horse-drawn cart down a cobblestone street. His hands gripped the frame and he tried to think. He’d been home. Juliette was…
Juliette.
He squeezed his eyes shut as she slipped away and became only memory.
Clenching his jaw against the emotion that made him tremble, he took in a deep breath. He was in London. 1888 London, for the Council. Emilie and Juliette were gone.
Victor straightened and opened his eyes to see the dull, dingy window and the world outside. It was another event, but this one had cut straight to his heart. It was like losing them again.
He walked back over to the bed and sat down heavily, the mattress giving under his weight. For the others, losing themselves into the past was horrible, frightening, but for him, it was the opposite. The cruelty lay in coming back.
It had been all at once foreign and familiar. The feeling of being whole, of being happy. He’d wasted so much time with them. If only he’d known what was to come.
He laughed at his own foolishness. His past, although it lingered in him, was gone. They were gone. And he was just a shadow.
He pulled a hand down over his face and scrubbed his chin and then looked around the sad little room. Run down, dirty, dark. It suited him now. This was his life. It took darkness to fight darkness, and he would do so until he had no breath. Maybe that would be today.
He looked toward the soot-stained window and saw the faintest hint of light. He sat there until dawn, but the sun did not come up. Rain came instead and the dull gray night became a dull gray day.
~~~
Victor walked among the crowd that lined Old Montague Street early Thursday morning. Rain showers had come and gone and come again, leaving the streets thick with sludge. It was just before eight in the morning and despite their hangovers and their jobs, nearly everyone in the neighborhood showed for the spectacle of Mary Ann Nichols’ funeral procession.
Most funerals in Whitechapel were simple affairs. Death was a common occurrence and no money was wasted that could be spent on the living. Word had gotten out that Nichols’ father and estranged husband were footing the bill for a not-quite lavish, but respectable, funeral. And so the people who knew her, ignored her, and had never heard of her all lined the streets for a glimpse of something out of the ordinary, something to talk about that night in the pub while they wondered when or if the murderer would strike again.
The costermongers and peddlers were out, working the crowd, selling apples, roasted nuts, ham sandwiches, coffee and ginger beer. It wasn’t quite the Queen’s Jubilee, but where there was a crowd, there was a penny to be made.
The people milled about waiting and Victor scanned the crowd. He’d already come to know dozens of the faces. He saw several of the women from the pubs he’d frequented, including several of Ripper’s next victims who stood huddled together in the rain, oblivious to what awaited them. The only thing worse than knowing he could do nothing to stop it, was knowing what
he would have to do when the time came.
Elizabeth Stride and Annie Chapman shared some secret between them and laughed. Marie appeared and ducked under the cover of a tarp that partially sheltered a store front. He felt the urge well inside him to act, but he was just an observer, he reminded himself. Stand and watch.
A man dashed across the street and slipped in muck, falling face first into the mire. The crowd laughed, delighted, as he slipped again and wiped the mud from his face.
Near the corner, leaning against a lamppost, was John Pizer. He’d left his leather apron at home this time, and he struggled to light a pipe in the drizzle.
Victor recognized a few other men from the pubs, and one he’d only seen old photos of, George Lusk. He took off his black bowler hat and shook the rain off while he patiently waited with the others. Victor knew that Lusk would soon form the Whitechapel Vigilance Committee when the police efforts fell flat. He’d also be the unlucky recipient of a piece of bloody kidney in the mail courtesy of Jack the Ripper. With it would be a note explaining that he only sent half because he’d fried and eaten the other. Although many believed it to be a poor joke, a taunt sent by someone else, it was another part of the Ripper case that added to the legend. But Victor was not here to find a legend. He was here to find a man. And that man was somewhere near.
Under the sanctuary of a large black umbrella stood Vale and Graham. Well dressed and out of place among the rest who’d come to watch. It was the first time he’d seen them here. He studied her face, but there was little resemblance to the she-devil he’d captured. She was, he supposed, a beautiful woman, but hard, even in youth.
Next to her, Charles Graham looked exactly like the photograph Travers had shown him. Average looking, average height, average in every way except intellectually—the perfect person to blend into a crowd in any time. Graham keenly studied the people around him, probably doing exactly what Victor was, wondering who among them was their man.
A murmur from the east end of the street pulled Victor’s attention away. It grew louder and he could just make out a driver and wagon coming near. A hush fell over the crowd.
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