by Jana Oliver
“Indeed she does.” Beyond your wildest imagination.
“I’ve got a spare key for you. She said you should have it.”
The man dug under the counter and produced the item. “Oh, I almost forgot. She ordered a book for you. It came in just last evening.” More excavating produced a tome. He set it on the counter like it was fine crystal. “It’s about forensic science. She said you were quite interested in that field.”
“I most certainly am.” Alastair stepped forward. “Post-Mortem Examinations: With Special Reference to Medico-Legal Practice.” He caressed the spine, deeply affected by the gesture. In the midst of all her difficulties, she had thought of him. This was his very first forensic text, a worthy start to what he hoped would become a personal library someday. Although being a doctor and a newly minted forensic pathologist didn’t pay that much, he could still have dreams.
“She already paid for it,” Pratchett informed him. “I doubt she’ll mind you collecting it today. I’ll wrap it up, if you like.”
Alastair nodded, still astonished at Jacynda’s generosity. Yet it was not the first time she’d been so thoughtful. In weeks past, she had provided him with a substantial sum to support his medical work amongst the poor. That gift had given him hope for the future.
With a rustle of paper, Pratchett expertly encased the book in brown wrapping and then tied the package with twine.
“Have they had any luck finding Sergeant Keats?” the bookstore owner asked.
Alastair was jarred out of his reverie. “Pardon?”
“Keats. The wanted man. I noted he is a friend of yours. There was some mention of it in the papers. I’ve been following his career since he arrived at the Yard. Well, him and others.” Pratchett looked chagrined. “You see, I always wanted to be a copper, but my ancestors were all stubby, so I failed to meet the height requirements.” He paused for a quick breath before rattling on. “I don’t believe he did it for a second. Only ignorant men throw away a promising future over that sort of woman.”
“I agree.”
“I’m willing to wager he’s on the trail of the murderer,” Pratchett surmised. “It’ll make great reading in the newspapers when he finally catches his man, and a comeuppance for those who look down on his stature.”
Alastair couldn’t help but warm to the bookseller. “Did you read about the inquest?”
“I did. That’s how I learned that the sergeant is a short fellow, like me. Do you know that the editor of the Pall Mall Gazette wrote an article in his paper about that very thing?”
“No, I was not aware of that.”
“He says the reason they can’t find the Ripper is because the constabulary has no room for clever little ferrets of men in the London detective force. I totally agree with Mr. Stead on that point. Why should height be a barrier to detection?”
“I agree. Well, hopefully Keats has his day in court.” Alastair picked up the parcel. “Do you mind if I check Miss Lassiter’s room?”
“Not in the least. If she’s trusted you with a key, I shall as well.”
“Thank you.”
Jacynda’s room looked untouched. The bed was made, the fireplace cold. The edge of her Gladstone peeped out from under the bed frame. He nudged it farther underneath with his boot. Then he sat on the foot of the hard bed, cradling his head in his hands. The scene came back to him with vivid clarity: the smell of the burning tobacco, her pleas for help as her fists hammered on the warehouse doors. Smoke pouring out around the hinges as the rum barrels exploded like cannon fire.
You cannot be dead.
Chapter 3
2057 A.D.
Time Protocol Board
T.E. Morrisey noted with displeasure that the meeting was being held in a private room inside the Time Protocol Board complex. That meant there would be no public record. Furthering his irritation was the stipulation that his assistant and legal advisor, Fulham, not be admitted.
“Just a friendly chat,” one of the board members had remarked with false bonhomie. “The Genius needs no legal representative.”
Morrisey detested that label. Though he held a score of patents and had created the Fast Forward software that powered the time immersion industry, he didn’t consider himself a genius. He just paid attention, noting things that others missed. Like this room, for example. It was decorated in what Miss Lassiter might call Corporate Dull. No elegant artwork on the walls, tatami mats on the floor or a waterfall gracing a corner. In Morrisey’s eyes, the room had no soul. It mirrored its owners.
Most of that was the fault of the current chairman, Marvin Davies, a sixty-something career politico with a penchant for bad haircuts. If they could manipulate DNA to create the perfect politician, Davies would be the result. He had little to no knowledge of time travel, which set the standard for the other five members of the board. M.A. Fletcher, the one board member who actually knew something of the industry, was noticeably absent. That was the most striking change since Morrisey was last here.
First came the warm, caring approach. They’d offered him tea served by a very attractive young Asian woman. He’d taken the tea and ignored the physical bait, irritated they knew which buttons to push.
Then they’d asked him a myriad of questions, all the while apologizing for wasting his valuable time. Just a few more, they’d said, and then you can get back to the strenuous work of managing TEM Enterprises.
When Morrisey hadn’t provided the answers they desired, a nod came from Davies. The gloves were quickly tossed aside.
“Defoe? Where is he?” one of the board members demanded.
“I have no idea,” Morrisey replied, his clipped British accent providing a civilized contrast to those around him.
It was a bold lie. Harter Defoe, his partner in TEM Enterprises and the world’s first time traveler, was currently recuperating in Morrisey’s private quarters. He would stay there until his bullet wound healed, or he was discovered. With a Reasonable Force Warrant in effect Harter was definitely a wanted man, though TPB insisted it was only to protect Time Rover One, as he was called.
Chairman Davies stirred to life. “Why did you allow Lassiter to transfer to 1888 against our orders?”
“She returned to finish the job.” And to fulfill her bargain with the Government. They’d been threatening a decade-long prison term if she didn’t dance to their tune.
In Morrisey’s opinion, her illegal actions were humanitarian—smuggling tomato seeds to the Off-Gridders, those who lived outside of society. Her lawbreaking had kept a number of them from starvation. He thought she deserved a medal, not ten years in a jail cell.
But that wasn’t the only sword hanging over her head.
“Lassiter’s latest TPB hearing resulted in a sentence, Mr. Morrisey.” Davies tapped the holo-keyboard on the tabletop in front of him. “Let’s see—six months’ incarceration, mandatory treatment for her behavioral problems, and revocation of her Time Immersion license, all for violating time directives.”
“Returning my nephew’s ashes from 1888 is hardly a crime,” Morrisey replied. She’d risked her life and her career to bring Chris home to his family. It’s why Morrisey had gone out on a limb for her.
And shall continue to do so.
“She was specifically ordered not to. Lassiter has a long history of flaunting the rules.” Davies looked up. “By letting her return to 1888, you helped a fugitive escape.”
“Escape?” Morrisey replied. “No indeed. She will return once she’s finished her tasks.” Another falsehood. At least he hoped it was.
“Her Open Force Warrant is still in effect,” Davies announced.
“I am aware of that.” He was still incensed that TPB would issue such an abomination in the first place. An OFW was a no-holds-barred retrieval. As long as the fugitive returned to 2057, it didn’t matter in what shape: alive or dead. If Jacynda had to stay in the time stream to avoid a grave, Morrisey would see to it.
“Did the Government have something to do with
this?” Davies quizzed.
Dodging the question, Morrisey replied, “Miss Lassiter returned to the nineteenth century because of the disconnect between 1888’s recorded history and what was happening in real time. That’s a Rover’s job, gentlemen. No one knows ’88 as well as she does.”
After a quick glance toward the other members of the board, Davies shifted in his seat. “We know about the disconnect. It’s not a major concern, at least not so important as to allow a fugitive to run amok in the time stream.”
Not a major concern? That’s not what they’d been saying awhile back. “The disconnect is more pronounced than you may realize,” Morrisey hedged, testing the waters.
“Not according to our engineers,” Davies shot back. “They assure me it will adjust once Lassiter is no longer in the time period.”
That was a new one: a Rover destabilizing the time stream. They had to work extra hard to come up with that.
Davies leaned over the table, adopting a let’s-be-reasonable expression. “Come now, Mr. Morrisey. I respect your concern for an employee, but this Rover has gone too far. After she returned to 1888, she assaulted one of our contract employees. She is out of control.”
“That is a matter open for debate.”
“According to Copeland’s report, he was trying to execute the Open Force Warrant issued against her.”
“I do suspect the word execute is appropriate here.”
“Absolutely not. He says she pulled a gun on him.”
That wasn’t what he’d heard from Harter. The bullet in his friend’s chest had been courtesy of TPB’s henchman, though apparently they weren’t aware of it.
“You must recall her and Defoe immediately,” Davis ordered.
“We’ve lost contact.”
“Then perhaps we should amend Defoe’s RFW and make it Open Force. He is as much a threat as the other Rover,” Davies argued.
Morrisey’s temper flared. “Harter pioneered this technology. He is time travel. Without him, you wouldn’t have this job, Davies.”
“And I am grateful,” the man replied dismissively. “If you think you’ve gone unscathed, we will be drawing up charges for willfully disregarding our orders. If Defoe and Miss Lassiter return to 2057 immediately, we won’t file those.”
“She still goes to jail?”
“Of course, with time added on for her assault against a TPB employee. She’s up to three years and counting.”
No deal. “I really do not know where she is,” he repeated.
“Well, then, you’re in it deep, aren’t you?” Davies replied, a note of glee in his voice.
That pretty much summed it up.
~••~••~••~
Wednesday, 24 October, 1888
London
As Alastair neared the archway that led to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, he felt he was crossing into another world. He always had that sensation. He’d not been in London in ’84 when the Irish anarchists had placed a bomb in the public restroom beneath Special Branch’s office, but he’d read the newspaper accounts. There had been many injuries, though fortunately no one had died. Now, as he walked toward that particular building, he wondered what it must have been like in the minutes after the bomb exploded. “What gall,” he muttered.
Would Flaherty attempt that again? Considering the three wagonloads of explosives the anarchist had stolen, he could bring down the entire building. If not for Keats’ keen sleuthing abilities, Flaherty would still be heavily armed.
In early October, Keats had noticed a wagon in Whitechapel and shrewdly deduced that underneath the casks of rum were hidden barrels of gunpowder. As usual, he’d been too eager. Though badly outnumbered, he’d confronted Flaherty and his men, refusing to wait for additional constables to make the arrest. Alastair could still hear the thud of the punches as they landed on his friend, the shouts from the onlookers, the two-tone police whistles shrilling in the night air.
In the end, the police had secured the wagon, but the cost had been unfathomable. The fight had left Keats with a broken rib and a brutal head injury, which rendered him incapable of shifting form. If Jacynda hadn’t treated him with whatever fantastic medicine they had in her time, he could easily have died. Now the Hero of Green Dragon Place, as Keats was once called, was reviled as a murderer. The two accounts did not square.
Once Alastair offered his calling card and explained the purpose of his visit, a constable trotted off to Chief Inspector Fisher’s office. Alastair chose a bench and settled there, resisting the urge to open the parcel and dig into the book. Hopefully, he would not be here long; he just needed to explain the events of the previous night and his involvement in the discovery of Hugo Effington’s body. Scotland Yard would expect such a report, if only to ensure they did not turn their eyes in his direction when it came to the murder.
The last time he’d been here he was full of hope, sure that the evidence he’d uncovered would overturn Keats’ arrest warrant. It had not come to pass, even though he had proved that his friend was too short to have murdered the Hallcox woman. The legal machinery, once in motion, was very hard to stop.
“Doctor?” the constable called, waving him up the stairs.
That came more quickly than expected. Alastair squared his shoulders and marched upward.
“Ah, Dr. Montrose,” Fisher greeted, rising from behind his desk. Keats’ superior was immaculate, his beard and moustache well groomed. He was always that way, no matter the time of day. The instant he saw Alastair’s ravaged face, he winced. “Please sit. We have some matters to discuss.”
The other man in the room wasn’t someone the doctor relished. Inspector Hulme, the local inspector in charge of the Hallcox murder investigation, eyed him glumly.
“Doctor,” he muttered.
Alastair nodded in reply. Fisher leaned forward, his eyes full of morbid curiosity. “You are definitely singed around the edges, Doctor.”
“To be blunt, it was a hellish night.”
“So I hear,” Fisher replied. “I must thank you for coming to us. You were not at your boarding house this morning, and your landlady was unsure of your location.”
“I stayed the night with Dr. Bishop. I was too exhausted to return to my own bed.”
“I see. Do tell us what happened, will you?”
Alastair related the evening’s events, or at least the parts he thought the police might accept. Telling them that Miss Lassiter was actually from the future would only earn him ridicule and render his other testimony suspect. He hardly believed it himself at times.
“What of the fire itself?” Fisher quizzed.
“I have no notion how it began. I went to fetch a constable and when I returned, the building was ablaze.”
“Where is Miss Lassiter now?” Fisher asked.
“I am not sure. She does tend to wander,” he remarked, hoping with all his might that it was true this time.
“Indeed. What were you doing there?”
“I was looking for Keats.” As you asked me to.
“So why was Miss Lassiter there?” Hulme jumped in.
Alastair had wondered how long the inspector would hold his silence.
“She was particularly interested in Effington, ever since the assassination attempt at his party. She’d heard that he was skimming goods off the top of his customers’ loads and hiding them in one of his own warehouses. She wanted to investigate the claim.”
Hulme scowled. “I suppose it never occurred to her that there is a paid constabulary in this city.”
The doctor swore he heard a chuckle from Fisher.
“Miss Lassiter is single-minded, Inspector,” Alastair explained. “Once she has the bit in her teeth, there is no means of stopping her.”
“I will vouch for that, Hulme,” Fisher added. “I’ve spoken at length with the woman, and she is quite tenacious.”
“So it seems,” Hulme grumbled.
“Is she still residing at the Charing Cross Hotel?” Fisher asked.
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“No,” Alastair replied. “She’s staying in a room at Pratchett’s Bookshop in the Strand.”
“Why?” Hulme challenged.
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“From what I gather,” the chief inspector interjected, “they’re still digging through the remains of the warehouse, but they have not found any further corpses.”
“Thank God,” Alastair murmured.
“Did you kill Hugo Effington?” Hulme asked.
Alastair’s eyes widened. “No.”
“Set fire to the building?”
“No. Why do you think I would do such things?”
Hulme only smirked for an answer, making Alastair’s gut churn. Does he know about what happened in Wales?
“We put these sorts of questions to anyone who may have been at the scene of a crime, Doctor,” Fisher remarked.
“Even when you know what the answer will be?”
“Of course. Sometimes you receive a reply that surprises you,” the senior officer replied. “Who do you think might have killed him?”
“Given his egregious behavior, Effington no doubt had a long list of enemies. I would hazard that it was someone very familiar with human anatomy. As best as I could tell from a brief inspection of the corpse, the blade went neatly between two ribs at the precise level to impact the heart.”
“A doctor?” Hulme quizzed.
Alastair gave him a sour look. “Or a professional assassin.”
“There are a lot more of the former around than the latter,” Hulme replied.
“I requested a copy of the post-mortem results this morning,” Fisher cut in. He offered the doctor a few sheets of paper.
Alastair scanned the notes from the local coroner who had performed the post-mortem. “Lack of soot in the lungs indicative of death before the fire, pericardium pierced by a single incision.” He dropped the papers on the desk. “As I expected.”
