A Rip in Time (Out of Time #7)

by Monique Martin

  Simon could well imagine.

  They’d kept the details of his and Vale’s futures from him. It was a difficult decision, knowing the jeopardy he was potentially in, but they couldn’t risk affecting the timeline by telling him. Knowledge of the future was a dangerous thing.

  If only they could send her away for the duration. But with no cause, they couldn’t exactly tie her up somewhere for the next month, as tempting as it was. She had a part to play in this, the starring role in the final act, locked up in Bedlam if all went well. And for now, all they could do was watch and wait.

  “Tea is being served in the tent,” Roxbury called out.

  Those who’d lingered started toward to the large white canvas tent that had been erected not far from the pitch. The three of them slowly made their way toward it.

  “I see that the doctor was indisposed this morning,” Graham said.

  “I’m guessing he’s busy taking some of that headache powder he’s been giving to Katherine,” Elizabeth said.

  Graham pulled up short. He cocked his head slightly to the side. “What?”

  “She went to him for her headaches,” Elizabeth said.

  “Oh,” Graham said, having clearly been in the dark about that. “Of course.”

  He frowned in thought.

  “Something wrong?” Simon asked. He could think of no aboveboard reason as to why Vale had kept her visits with the doctor a secret from Graham.

  Graham arched an eyebrow. “Well, it is a bit troubling that she’s sought help from our prime suspect, isn’t it?”

  And if she were the one who killed Jack the Ripper and changed time, that made it a little more than troubling, Simon thought. He nodded in agreement.

  “Any progress on that front?” Graham asked. “Any clues linking him to the murders?”

  “Just a feeling,” Elizabeth said, keeping her late-night adventure to herself.

  “And you?” Simon asked Graham. “You’ve found nothing else?”

  He shook his head. “About the doctor? No. Nor anyone else. Whoever our Jack is, he’s quite clever.”

  “You almost sound like you admire him,” Simon said.

  Graham sighed. “I wouldn’t say that, but he’s avoided being seen so far. No ordinary man could do that.”

  “Not without help,” Elizabeth said.

  Graham rolled down his shirtsleeves and began to button the cuffs. “The partner theory? Possible.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t see anyone else suspicious the night of the murders? Anything that might help,” Simon asked.

  “No, it’s as I told you. The first night I was too far to see anything, and the second I was rudely interrupted by the Vigilance Committee. They locked me up before the night even began. I’d just arrived in Whitechapel when they said hello,” he said, rubbing the back of his head where they’d knocked him unconscious.

  Some niggling sensation took root in Simon’s mind. Something about that wasn’t right. “What time was that again?”

  “Couldn’t have been past midnight,” Graham said. “I’d barely even gotten there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Graham looked at him in confusion. “I’m certain.”

  Simon nodded. “Of course.”

  After a few more paces, he stopped walking and made a show of patting his pockets. “I think I left something.”

  He took hold of Elizabeth’s arm to keep her with him and added, “We’ll catch up with you later?”

  Graham nodded and kept on toward the tent. Simon watched him, wondering what had just happened. And, more importantly, why.

  “What did you forget?” Elizabeth asked.

  Simon stared after Graham, a troubled feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

  “Graham just lied to us.”

  Elizabeth looked back at Graham as he neared the tent. “What do you mean?”

  “Victor said he saw Graham just before Annie Chapman’s murder. Minutes before. He made a point of it.”

  The light dawned in Elizabeth’s eyes. “That was close to four in the morning.”

  “Certainly not before midnight,” Simon said.

  “Why would Graham lie about that?”

  Simon clenched his jaw. “I don’t know. But it makes me wonder just what else he’s has been lying about.”

  ~~~

  That night after dinner, the company didn’t split into two groups—men and women—as was the custom, but instead all gathered together in the grand salon. Simon was glad of that for many reasons, not the least of which was he needn’t be separated from Elizabeth.

  They’d gone from having an ally to, well, frankly, Simon wasn’t sure what Graham was anymore. Perhaps they’d been fools to trust him at all. He was, after all, still with Katherine Vale despite their, albeit vague, warnings. And now the lie. How many others had he told?

  Simon glanced around the room. Graham stood near the piano, smiling amiably as the evening’s entertainment continued. Roxbury and Masters’ wife were singing a song from Gilbert & Sullivan’s HMS Pinafore, “Things Are Seldom What They Seem.” Willingham had even recited some poetry earlier. The evening was veering dangerously close to becoming an amateur talent night. Thankfully, it stopped just shy of that.

  Katherine Vale sat with Doctor Blackwood on the far side of the room. The two of them weren’t exactly what one would call cozy, but there was an attachment. An unwilling one, perhaps. But on whose part? Was Blackwood the one who was responsible for Vale’s ending up in Bedlam? It was an intriguing possibility and made Simon even more curious about their current relationship.

  Graham offered sherry to Vale and the doctor. Both accepted, but neither happily. Also, Simon noted, neither drank, putting the untouched glasses aside as though they were filled with poison and not sickly sweet sherry. Whatever divide existed between Graham and Vale earlier, it had grown.

  Meanwhile, Elizabeth was busy talking with Almovar. And while she was keeping an eye on the other players as well, the young man she was talking to was keeping a close eye on her. A very close eye, Simon thought with a tightening of his jaw.

  Elizabeth, absolutely stunning in a new gown she’d purchased just for this, chatted away, oblivious to the intensity of the man’s gaze. Spaniards. Simon ground his teeth and looked away. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by Elizabeth, no matter how distracting she might be.

  He took a sip of cognac and as he turned to set it aside, his head swam. The momentary vertigo passed quickly, but he still had to steady his hand as put his glass down on the end table. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly. What the devil had come over him and who the devil was Elizabeth talking to?

  Wasn’t it bad enough that she had that idiot Maxwell following her around San Francisco like a damned puppy? Did she really need to be flirting with some swarthy, dark haired man who looking at her with undisguised appreciation? What game was she playing at? God, did he have to keep watch over that woman every minute? His neck grew hot with his increasing jealousy and anger.

  Clenching his jaw, Simon stood and strode toward her about to slice into them both. If she thought she could—

  All at once, barely two strides in, the room tilted again and his memory came back. Simon drew up short, understanding now that he wasn’t in San Francisco and it wasn’t 1906, but 1888 London.

  Elizabeth came to his side.

  The concern in her eyes made him feel all the worse for the thoughts he’d just had. He forced a smile to his face and brushed his lips across her cheek.

  “No worries,” he assured her. “Just going for some air.”

  She nodded, but clearly didn’t believe him. Blessedly, she didn’t pursue it. He would explain later, he thought. Right now, he just wanted to be alone.

  Simon found the back veranda and took a long pull of cool country air. What an ass he’d been about to make of himself. What an ass he’d been. It wasn’t just the memory loss, the disorientation; it was the cold, clear reminder of wh
o he’d been.

  It was one thing to remember your previous self; gilded by selective memory, it was never quite right. But to experience it, to feel the loneliness of that man, the unsettled worry always nagging; it was immensely discomfiting.

  He did not want to be that man again.

  He looked out into the darkness of the expansive back lawn. It was still and quiet. He let out a breath. He was not that man anymore. He would not be that man as long as he had her.

  “Simon?”

  He smiled to himself, and closed his eyes for a moment in contentment.

  “Are you all right?” she asked as she came to his side.

  He put his arms around her. “I am now.”

  ~~~

  “When’s it my turn, Jolie?” a man said with a leer, as Victor walked into the Ten Bells.

  The object of his lewd remark was a woman sitting a nearby table nursing a baby. It was incongruous, to say the least, to see a nursing mother in a place like that god-awful pub. But then again, she wasn’t likely to have a sitter, if she wanted to go anywhere the baby went with her. Or it stayed home alone. Apparently, she fancied a drink. Hopefully, the baby did too. He was sure by the way she downed her pint that her milk had to be half beer.

  Marie waved to Victor and he joined her at what, despite his intentions to keep it otherwise, had become their table.

  She noticed his staring. “Ain’t ye seen a baby before?”

  Victor frowned. “Of course. Just not in a pub.”

  Marie shrugged. “Most don’t bring ‘em. Too noisy.”

  On cue the table next to theirs erupted into raucous laughter and appreciative screams.

  “How would they notice?” Victor asked.

  Marie smiled and he was reminded again how much he liked to see it and how rare it was.

  “She and little ‘un almost didn’t make it. Been laid up ever since. No work, can barely take care of the other little ‘uns,” Marie said.

  Victor made a sound of agreement, but he was barely listening. As he always did when he came in, he searched each face in the bar for some sign of the monster they sought. And, like every time before, he didn’t find anything.

  “Gabriel,” Marie continued, “that’s after an angel, ye know, that’s what she calls him. Cause he was like an angel, bringing life on a night filled with death.”

  Victor arched a questioning eyebrow.

  “He was born the night Annie Chapman was murdered. Her soul left and his came. Some think it’s unnerving, but I think it’s kinda magical.”

  “He was born the night of the murder?”

  Marie nodded. “It’s kinda beautiful, innit?”

  “And you say she had a hard time of it?” Victor asked, something working its way from the back of his brain to the front.

  “Even a midwife couldn’t help, had to call a doc. One just happened to be nearby, I hear. Both of ‘em woulda died without him. Was there all night. A saint, he is.”

  Victor looked over at the mother and child. “That was very fortunate.” He turned back to Marie. “You don’t happen to know the doctor’s name, do you?”

  “Blackwood.”

  Victor’s heart sank. “And he stayed with her all night?”

  She nodded. “Midnight till past sunrise.”

  Blackwood hadn’t been lying about where he was on the night of the murder. Graham had told the Crosses that he’d heard Blackwood was delivering a baby and damn if it weren’t true. If he’d really been with this mother and child all night…Victor leaned back in his chair. If he’d been with them, he couldn’t have committed the murder. Annie Chapman was murdered close to four in the morning. There was no way he could have done it.

  Blackwood was not Jack the Ripper.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “MORE WINE?”

  “NONE FOR me,” Elizabeth said with a shake of her head.

  Graham turned to Vale next and while she smiled and nodded, there was a noticeable iciness in it. The young, naive woman they’d met just a few weeks ago was transforming before their very eyes into the freakshow they’d left back in the present. It was incredibly disturbing to see. The changes were small—a slightly different mood, a look in the eyes, her posture—but all together they were a seismic shift in personality. And none of it for the better.

  They’d both tried to put on a smiling face, but neither could manage it for the whole evening. Early on in the dinner, they began sniping at each other with increasing frequency and bitterness. Both of their masks had begun to slip, and more and more, Elizabeth had to wonder just what was behind Graham’s.

  It seemed everyone here was lying, except the one person they thought surely was, the doctor.

  When they’d returned from the country, they’d been met by Freddie and a note from Victor. It was not the news they wanted to hear. Their main suspect, Dr. Blackwood, was no suspect at all. He had an airtight alibi for the night of the second murder. Victor had even managed to find other witnesses to corroborate the truth behind the doctor’s whereabouts.

  So much for that. So much for all of it. They’d been chasing the wrong man for weeks, and now with just three days to go before the next murders, they were back to square one.

  Simon laid a hand on her forearm. “All right?”

  She smiled and nodded at him, but he looked worried. Then again, these days, he always looked worried. And with good reason. If they didn’t find Ripper and save him….

  “I saw Madame Blavatsky yesterday,” Vale announced, winning a grunt of derision from Graham.

  Her eyes narrowed. “She said that things are going to get worse. Far worse.”

  She stared at Graham for a long, meaningful moment. “The murders, I mean. She said there’d be more. That’s very perceptive of her, don’t you think?”

  “It’s very something,” Graham said, taking a sip of wine.

  Vale ignored him and spoke to Elizabeth and Simon. “She also said that it’s no coincidence that the victims are prostitutes and not normal women.”

  “Really?” Simon asked.

  Graham set his wine glass on the table. “Normal women?” His voice was tight.

  “Well, those were her words, not mine,” Vale said, not the least bit contrite, and then gave an expression of forced surprise. “Oh, that’s right. I’d nearly forgotten. That’s a sore spot with you, isn’t it, Charles?”

  He blanched slightly and she seemed to delight in his discomfort. She smiled sweetly before turning back to Elizabeth and Simon. “You see, his mother was a whore.”

  It was all Elizabeth could do not do a spit take with the water in her mouth. From awkward to crazy awkward at the speed of light. Simon and Elizabeth exchanged glances. Nervous, whoa, what the Hell just happened glances.

  “I beg your pardon?” Simon asked, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Elizabeth knew she couldn’t.

  Graham’s face tightened. He clenched his jaw and then looked to Simon and Elizabeth, weighing his words carefully when he finally spoke. “We were poor, and she did what she had to do. I’m not ashamed of it. Or,” he added, looking back at Vale, “of her.”

  Although, he clearly was.

  His dark eyes glittered a promise of something unpleasant as he looked at Vale. However, she wasn’t frightened by his anger; if anything, she seemed to revel in it. Her smile only grew broader as Graham excused himself and made quick work of leaving the dining room. She watched him go and then returned to her meal as if nothing had happened.

  “I highly recommend the veal,” she said and took a delicate bite from her fork.

  It was quite the revelation. “By the way, my lover’s mother was a whore,” wasn’t typical dinner conversation. And considering they were there investigating a man who killed prostitutes, alarm bells didn’t just go off, they went off like crazy.

  Maybe his mother’s…occupation had been what made him so fascinated by the Ripper case. It certainly struck close to home. It was one possibility, Elizabeth thought. She glanced a
t Simon and could see him weigh what this new bit of information could mean. And judging from the look on his face, he did not like the conclusion he came to.

  ~~~

  “You don’t really think…” Elizabeth said, her voice trailing off as if saying the words would make them real.

  Simon looked at her and frowned. “That Graham is the Ripper?”

  He didn’t want to consider the possibility, but given what they knew, it was impossible not to.

  “I think it’s possible,” he said.

  Elizabeth flopped down in a chair in their hotel room. “I am never trusting anyone again. Present company excluded.”

  Simon smiled wanly.

  “And Jack. Wells, I mean,” she said. “I miss him.”

  Simon nodded. “I’m sure he’s fine. Probably romancing some Russian spy.”

  Elizabeth smiled and then sighed. “I still can’t believe Graham could the Ripper.”

  “It is a disturbing prospect.”

  “He seemed so nice. He was so helpful.”

  Simon sighed and walked over to the window. He pushed aside the curtain and looked out, but his mind was elsewhere.

  “Was he really helpful?” he asked, turning back around to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth thought for a moment and the frown on her face matched the feeling in Simon’s gut. “He pointed us toward the doctor.”

  “Misdirection?” Simon suggested.

  She nodded and continued. “Vale told me she thought he was having an affair. He was going off by himself, being secretive. I didn’t think much of it at the time, I’d be doing everything I could to avoid spending time with crazypants, too, but now…”

  “His past certainly puts things in a new light, doesn’t it?”

  Elizabeth tucked her legs up under herself, a sign she was settling into not just the chair, but into an idea. “Do you remember when we first met him?”

  “At the party,” Simon said, nodding.

  “He had a bandage on his hand.”

  Simon pushed out a breath and shook his head. “I’d completely forgotten that.”