The animated excitement of the anticipated search for the Ripper’s identity drained from Margo’s face. Malcolm hated seeing the dread and fear which replaced it. Missing tourist . . . any time guide’s worst nightmare. And not just any tourist, either, but one who’d already committed murder in a quiet Victorian hotel. A missing and homicidal tourist, search teams combing London at the beginning of the Ripper’s reign of terror . . . and back on the station, riots and murders and kidnappings . . . Malcolm met Margo’s frightened gaze, read the same bleak assessment in her eyes which coursed through his entire being. Margo’s budding career as a time scout, her dreams, were as much on the line as his own. Malcolm hadn’t seen Margo look so frightened since that horrible little prison cell in Portuguese Africa.
Wordlessly, he took her hand, squeezed her fingers. “We’d better get up there.”
They headed upstairs at a dead run.
* * *
John Lachley hadn’t planned to walk down past the Royal Opera, tonight.
But he’d emerged from his lecture at the Egyptian Hall to find the street blocked by an overturned carriage, which had collided with a team of drays, spilling the contents of a freight wagon and several screaming, hysterical ladies into the street, more frightned than injured. Glancing impatiently at his pocket watch, he’d determined that there was time, after all, before meeting Maybrick at his surgery in Cleveland Street, and rendered medical assistance, then pushed his way through the crowd and snarled traffic in search of a hansom he might hire.
It was sheer, blind chance which sent him down toward the Opera, where a rank of cabs could normally be found waiting for patrons. Sheer, bloody chance that had sent him straight into the path of a young woman who appeared from the murk of the wet night, gabbling out a plea for help. John Lachley had been at the wrong end of many an attack from vicious footpads, growing up in the East End, a target for nearly everyone’s scorn and hatred. Rage had detonated through him, watching an innocent young man struggle with a knife-wielding assailant, fighting for his life.
So Lachley drew the pistol he’d concealed for the night’s work with Maybrick and strode forward, ridding the street of this particular vermin with a single shot to the back of the skull. He expected the young man’s shock, of course, no one reacted well to having blood and bits of brain spattered across his face, and he even expected the young woman’s distraught reaction, nearly fainting under the strain of their close call.
But he did not expect what happened when he sounded the beautiful young woman’s pulse. The words came pouring out of her, in flawless Greek, ancient Greek, even as she snapped rigid, straining away from him: Death hangs on the tree beneath the vault . . . down beneath the bricks where the boy’s sightless skull rests . . . and six shall die for his letters and his pride . . .
This girl could not possibly know about the letters, about Tibor, about Morgan’s skull, sitting as a trophy atop the flame-ringed altar, or the massive oak on which the little bastard had died. But she did. And more, she had prophesied that five others should die for the sake of Eddy’s accursed letters . . .
Who?
He couldn’t even hazard an educated guess. But he intended to find out. Oh, yes, he most certainly intended to find out. He reacted with the swiftness a childhood in the East End had taught him, brought up the pistol to eliminate the young man whose life he’d just saved. “Sorry, old chap. Nothing personal . . .”
He discharged the gun at the same instant the shaken young man realized Lachley’s intent. The blood-spattered man flung himself violently sideways, trying to save himself. The bullet grazed the side of his skull, sending him reeling, wounded, to the ground. Lachley snarled out an oath and brought the pistol up to fire again, while the girl screamed and fainted—
“Jenna!”
The shout was from almost directly in front of him. Lachley jerked his gaze up and found a wild-eyed woman in a shabby dress racing toward him, twenty yards away and closing fast. She had an enormous revolver in one hand and was pointing it right at Lachley. With only a split-second to decide, Lachley loosed off a wild shot at the approaching woman to delay her and snatched up the unconcious girl at his feet. A gunshot ripped through the damp night and a bullet whipped past his ear, knocking his top hat to the street. Lachley swore and bolted with his prize, flung her across one shoulder and ran down toward Drury Lane and SoHo’s maze of mean, narrow streets.
He fully expected to hear the hue and cry sounded as constables were summoned; but no cry came, nor did any footsteps chase after him. Lachley slowed to a more decorous pace, discovering he was halfway down Drury Lane, and allowed his pulse to drop from its thunderous roar in his ears. With the panic of flight receding, rational thought returned. He paused for a moment in a narrow alley, shaking violently, then mastered himself and drew deep, gulping lungfuls of wet air to calm the tremors still ripping through him. Dear God . . . What was he to make of this?
He shifted the unconcious girl, cradled her in both arms, now, as though he were merely assisting a young lady in distress, and stared down at her pallid features. She was a tiny little thing, delicate of stature. Her face was exquisite and her rich black hair and olive cast of skin bespoke Mediterranean heritage. She’d gabbled out her plea for help in English, but the words spoken in shock—almost, he frowned, in a trance—had been the purest Greek he’d ever heard. But not modern Greek. Ancient Greek, the language of Aristotle and Aristophanes . . . yet with a distinctive dialectic difference he couldn’t quite pin down.
He’d studied a great deal, since his charity school days, educated as a scholarship pupil at a school where the other boys had tormented him endlessly. He’d learned everything he could lay hands on, had drunk in languages and history the way East End whores downed gin and rum, had discovered a carton of books in the back of the school’s dingy, mouldering library, books donated by a wealthy and eccentric patroness who had dabbled in the occult. John Lachley’s knowledge of ancient languages and occult practices had grown steadily over the years, earning him a hard-earned reputation as a renowned SoHo scholar of antiquities and magical practices. Lachley could read three major ancient dialects of Greek, alone, and knew several other ancient languages, including Aramaic.
But he couldn’t quite place the source of this girl’s phrasing and inflections.
Her half-choked words spilled through his memory again and again, brilliant as an iron welder’s torch. Who was this insignificant slip of a girl? As he peered at her face, stepping back out into Drury Lane to find a gaslight by which to study her, he realized she couldn’t be more than twenty years of age, if that. Where had she learned to speak ancient Greek? Ladies were not routinely taught such things, particularly in the Mediterranean countries. And where in the names of the unholy ancient gods which Lachley worshiped had she acquired the clairvoyant talent he’d witnessed outside the Opera House? A talent of that magnitude would cause shockwaves through the circles in which Lachley travelled.
He frowned at the thought. Revealing her might prove dangerous at this juncture. Surely someone would miss the girl? Would search for her? No matter. He could keep her quite well hidden from any search and he intended to exploit her raw talent in every possible way he could contrive. His frown deepened as he considered the problem. It would be best to drug her for a bit, keep her quietly hidden at the top of the house, locked into a bedroom, until he could determine more precisely who she was, where she’d come from, and what efforts would be made to locate her by the young man and the poorly dressed woman with the revolver.
Beyond that, however . . .
Lachley smiled slowly to himself. Beyond that, the future beckoned, with this girl as the instrument by which he viewed it and Prince Albert Victor as the key to controlling it. John Lachley had searched for years, seeking a true mystic with such a gift. He’d read accounts in the ancient texts, written in as many languages as he had been able to master. His fondest dream had been to find such a gifted person somewhere in the sprawling me
tropolis that was capitol city to the greatest empire on earth, to bring them under his mesmeric control, to use their powers for his own purposes. In all his years of searching, he had found only charlatans, like himself, tricksters and knaves and a few pathetic old women mumbling over tea leaves and cut crystal spheres in the backs of Romany wagons. He had all but lost hope of finding a real talent, such as the ancient texts had described. Yet here she was, not only vibrantly alive, she’d quite literally run straight into his arms, begging his help.
His smile deepened. Not such a bad beginning to the evening, after all. And by morning, Eddy’s letters would be safely in his hands.
Really, the evening was turning out to be most delightful, an adventure truly worthy of his skills and intellect. But before he quite dared celebrate, he had to make certain his prize did not succumb to shock and die before he could make use of her.
Lachley’s hands were all but trembling as he carried her through increasingly poorer streets, down wretched alleyways, until he emerged, finally, with many an uneasy glance over his shoulder, onto the broad thoroughfare of the Strand, where wealth once again flaunted its presence in the houses of the rich and the fine shops they patronized. He had no trouble, there, flagging down a hansom cab at last.
“Cleveland Street,” he ordered curtly. “The young lady’s quite ill. I must get her to my surgery at once.”
“Right, guv,” the cabbie nodded.
The cab lurched forward at an acceptably rapid pace and Lachley settled himself to sound his prize’s pulse and listen to the quality of her breathing. She was in deep shock, pulse fast and thready, skin clammy and chill. He cradled her head almost tenderly, wondering who the young man with her had been and who had attacked them. A Nichol footpad, most likely. They prowled the area near the Opera, targeting the wealthy gentlemen who frequented the neighborhood, so close to the slums of SoHo. That particular footpad’s fatal loss, however, was his immense gain.
The cab made excellent time, bringing him to his doorstep before she’d even regained consciousness from her dead faint. Charles answered the bell, since fumbling for his key was too awkward while carrying her. His manservant’s calm facade cracked slightly at the sight of his unconscious prize. “Whatever has happened, sir?”
“The young lady was attacked by footpads on the street. I must get her to the surgery at once.”
“Of course, sir. Your scheduled patient has arrived a little early. Mr. Maybrick is waiting in the study.”
“Very good, Charles,” Lachley nodded, leaving the butler to close and lock the door. James Maybrick could jolly well wait a bit longer. He had to secure this girl, quickly. He carried her back through the house and set her gently onto the examining table, where he retrieved his stethoscope and sounded her heartbeat. Yes, shock, right enough. He found blankets, elevated her feet, covered her warmly, then managed to rouse the girl from her stupor by chafing her wrists and placing warm compresses along her neck. She stirred, moaned softly. Lachley smiled quietly, then poured out a draught of his potent aperitif. He was lifting the girl’s head, trying to bring her round sufficiently to swallow it, when Charles appeared at the door to the surgery.
“Dr. Lachley, I beg pardon, sir, but Mr. Maybrick is growing quite agitated. He insists on seeing you immediately, sir.”
Lachley tightened his hands around the vial of medicine and forcibly fought back an unreasoning wave of rage. Ill-timed bastard! I’ll bloody well shoot him through the balls when this night’s business is done! “Very well!” he snapped. “Tell him I’ll be there directly.”
The girl was only half conscious, but more than awake enough to swallow the drug. He forced it past her teeth, then held her mouth closed when she struggled, weak and trembling in his grasp. A faint sound of terror escaped from between ashen lips before she swallowed involuntarily. He got more of the drug down her throat, then gave curt instructions to the waiting manservant. “Watch her, Charles. She’s quite ill. The medicine should help her sleep.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Move her to the guest room as soon as the medicine takes hold. I’ll check on her again after I’ve seen Mr. Maybrick.”
Charles nodded and stepped aside to let him pass. Lachley stormed past, vowing to take a suitable vengeance for the interruption. Then he drew multiple calming breaths, fixed in place a freezing smile, and steeled himself to suffer the slings and arrows of a fortune so outrageous, even the bloody Bard would’ve been driven to murder, taking up arms against it. One day, he promised himself, I shall laugh about this.
Preferably, on the day James Maybrick dropped off a gallows.
Meanwhile . . .
He opened the door briskly and greeted the madman waiting beyond. “My dear Mr. Maybrick! So delighted to see you, sir! Now, then, what seems to be the trouble this evening . . .”
Beyond James Maybrick’s pasty features, beyond the windows and their heavy drapes and thick panes of wavy glass, lightning flickered, promising another storm to match the one in Lachley’s infuriated soul.
* * *
Kit Carson knew he was a hopelessly doting grandfather when, twenty-four hours after Margo’s departure for London, he was seriously considering going through the Britannia the next time it opened, just to be near her. He missed the exasperating little minx more than he’d have believed possible. The apartment they shared was echoingly empty. Dinner was a depressingly silent affair. And not even the endless paperwork waiting for him at the Neo Edo’s office could distract him from his gloom. Worse, they’d found no trace of Ianira Cassondra, her husband Marcus, or the cassondra’s beautiful children, despite the largest manhunt in station history. Station security hadn’t been any more successful finding the two people who’d shot three men on station, either, despite their being described in detail by a full two-dozen eyewitnesses.
By the next day, when the Wild West Gate cycled into Denver’s, summer of 1885, tempers amongst the security squads were running ragged. Ianira’s up-time acolytes—many of them injured during the rioting—were staging protests that threatened to bring commerce in Little Agora to a screeching halt. And Kit Carson—who’d spent a fair percentage of his night working with search teams, combing the rocky bowels of the station for some trace of the missing down-timers—needed a drink as badly as a dehydrated cactus needed a desert rainstorm in the spring.
Unshaven and tired, with a lonely ache in his chest, Kit found himself wandering into Frontier Town during the pre-gate ruckus, looking for company and something wet to drown his sorrows. He couldn’t even rely on Malcolm to jolly him out of his mood—Malcolm was down the Britannia with Margo, lucky stiff. A sardonic smile twisted Kit’s mouth. Why he’d ever thought retirement would be any fun was beyond him. Nothing but massive doses of boredom mingled with thieving tourists who stripped the Neo Edo’s rooms of everything from towels to plumbing fixtures, and endless gossip about who was doing what, with or to whom, and why. Maybe I ought to start guiding, just for something to do? Something that didn’t involve filling out the endless government paperwork required for running a time-terminal hotel . . .
“Hey, Kit!” a familiar voice jolted him out of his gloomy maunderings. “You look sorrier than a wet cat that’s just lost a dogfight.”
Robert Li, station antiquarian and good friend, was seated at a cafe table outside Bronco Billy’s, next to the Arabian Nights contruction crew foreman. Li’s dark eyes glinted with sympathetic good humor as he waved Kit over.
“Nah,” Kit shook his head, angling over to grab one of the empty chairs at Robert’s table, “didn’t lose a dogfight. Just missing an Imp.”
“Ah,” Robert nodded sagely, trying to look his inscrutable best. A maternal Scandinavian heritage had given the antiquarian his fair-skinned coloring, but a paternal Hong Kong Chinese grandfather had bequeathed Li his name, the slight almond shape of his eyes, and the self-ascribed duty to go inscrutable on command. “The nest empties and the father bird chirps woefully.”
Kit smiled,
despite himself. “Robert?”
“Yeah?”
“Save it for the tourists, huh?”
The antiquarian grinned, unrepentant, and introduced him to the foreman.
“Kit, meet Ammar Kalil Ben Mahir Riyad, foreman of the Arabian Nights construction team. We’ve just been discussing pre-Islamic Arabian artwork. He’s worried about the Arabian Nights tourists, because they’re going to try smuggling antiquities out through the gate and he wanted to know if I could help spot the thefts.”
“Of course,” Kit nodded, shaking hands across the table and greeting him in Arabic, of which he knew only a few words. The foreman smiled and returned the greeting, then his eyes turned serious. “I will stay only a moment longer, Mr. Carson, our work shift begins again soon.” He hesitated, then said, “I wish to apologize for the problems some of my workers have caused. I was not given any choice in the men I brought into TT-86. Others did the hiring. Most of us are Suni, we have no quarrel with anyone, and even most up-time Shi’ia do not agree with this terrible Brotherhood. I did not know some of the men were members, or I would have refused to take them. If I could afford to send away those who started the fighting, I would. But it is not in my power to fire them and we are already behind schedule. I have docked their wages and written letters of protest to my superiors, which I will send through Primary when it opens. I have asked for them to be replaced with reliable workers who will not start riots. Perhaps,” he hesitated again, looking very worried, “you could speak with your station manager? If the station deports them, I cannot be held responsible and my superiors will have to send reliable men to replace them, men who are not in the Ansar Majlis.”
“I’ll talk to Bull Morgan,” Kit promised.
Relief touched his dark eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Carson. Your word means a great deal.” He glanced at Robert and a hint of his smile returned. “I enjoyed very much discussing my country’s ancient art with you, Mr. Li.”
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