Time Scout

by Robert Asprin

  "Salmon for Belgravia," Malcolm shouted above the roar, "and herrings for Whitechapel!"

  "What do we want?"

  "Eels!"

  "Eels?"

  After that dinner at the Epicurean Delight, Billingsgate's eels came as another rude shock. Malcolm filled their cart with the most repugnant, slithery mess Margo had ever seen. Jellied eels went from huge enameled bowls into stoneware pots. From another vendor they procured hot "pie-and-mash" pies, plus a supply of hideous green stuff the screaming fishwife called "liquor." Malcolm bargained the prices lower in an ear bending accent. The language the fishwives used put to shame anything Margo had heard on the streets of New York-when she understood it at all. Malcolm stacked the pies in their cart, layered them on boards and wrapped them in worn woolen cloth to keep them warm. Margo-under instructions to pay attention to details-tried to keep track of what she witnessed, but there was so much to take in she found it all running together in a screaming blur.

  They finally escaped Billingsgate's scaly stench and set out. Malcolm did a surprisingly brisk business selling eels and pies as they entered the cramped streets of Wapping. Of Malcolm's colorful patter, however, Margo didn't understand one word in four.

  "Give yer plates of meat a treat," he called out, "rest a bit, I've eels to eat!" Then, another block onward, "Yer trouble and strife givin' you worries? Tike 'ome lot eels, thankee and tip o' the titfer t' you, mate." Then, to a hollow-cheeked lad who eyed the cart longingly, "Wot, no bees 'n' 'oney? Rough days but I gots mouths ter feed meself."

  He hushed her. "Not until later in the year. August." Margo shivered and eyed ill-kempt women, wondering which of them might fall victim to the notorious serial murderer. It was an unsettling thought. Kit Carson's brutal assessment of her chances in this slum rang in her ears. All right, she grudged him, you've got a point.

  Malcolm sold a few eels, mostly to sleepy women whose clothing still reeked of their previous night's customers. Everywhere the stench of human waste, cheap gin, and rot rose like a miasma from the ground.

  "Are all the women in Whitechapel prostitutes?" Margo whispered

  Malcolm shook his head "Not all." Then in a cautious whisper, "There are some eighty-thousand whores in London, most trying to stave off starvation." Margo understood that statement now in a way that would have been impossible two hours previously.

  "Do they stay prostitutes?"

  "Some yes, many no. Many take to the `gay life, as prostitution was known, only long enough to find a better-paying job. Northwest of here, up in Spitalfields for instance, a woman can get work in the garment district sweat shops. If she doesn't have too many mouths to feed, she might eke out a living without going back on the streets."

  They glanced at a yawning fourteen-year-old who eyed Margo speculatively, appraising the young man" for Essential business even this early in the day. She switched er attention to Malcolm and smiled. "Tumble for a pie?"

  Malcolm just shook his head, leaving the girl hurling curses at them.

  Margo was fascinated and repulsed at the same time. She felt as though she'd stepped into a living play whose author had no real ending in mind. Study your part, study the background. That was what Kit and Malcolm had brought her here to learn.

  "With so many women in the business," Margo asked slowly, trying hard to understand, "isn't competition fierce?"

  "Ye-esss ...in a manner of speaking. Officially, you understand, sex was considered extremely bad for one's health. Led to a breakdown of one's physical constitution and mental faculties. Privately, our straight laced Victorian gentleman considered sex his natural right and any woman born lower than his station was fair game. London had several million souls, recall, not to mention seafaring crews. Remind yourself to look up an eleven-volume-personal memoir called My Private Life when we return to the station library. It's available on computer now You'll find it ...revealing of Victorian social attitudes."

  "What happens to all these women? When they're too old or ill to work?"

  "Some go to the Magdalen for help."

  "Magdalen?"

  "South of the Thames," Malcolm murmured as they trundled their cart along, "you will find four kinds of `charity' institutions, if one can call them that. Bedlam, Bethlehem Hospital-is for mental patients. Old Bridewell was originally a school to train apprentices, but it turned into a brutal prison. Eventually a new school was attached to the prison grounds to house legitimate apprentices. Bridewell apprentices are notorious delinquents, the terror of the city. Then there are protected girls in the purple uniforms of the Lambeth Asylum for Female Orphans, and of course the grey of the Magdalen Hospital for seduced girls and prostitutes. A number of-the girls rescued by Magdalen go mad anyway from incurable syphilis."

  Margo shuddered. She'd grown up taking medical miracles for granted. How long did it take the "social disease" to deteriorate a person's brain into insanity?

  While she tried to take it all in, they sold eels and pies and moved steadily westward. Then, astonishing her with the abruptness of the transition, the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral loomed up over the dreary skyline. They found themselves abruptly in the heart of the bright, sunlit "City" where London's Lord Mayor ruled from Mansion House. Margo gaped at the wealthy carriages which jostled for space on the narrow streets.

  "It's amazing," she said, staring back the way they'd come. "I can hardly believe the change."

  "Yes. It is startling, isn't it?"

  The respite didn't last long, though. Past Lincoln Inn Fields, they plunged once more into a realm of dark, sagging rooflines which overhung one another. The bright sunlight they'd left behind seemed centuries as well as miles away.

  "How can they live and work so close to this misery and not care?"

  Malcolm gave her a long, penetrating look. `"they haven't wanted to see it. An effort is eventually made, particularly after Red Jack ensures that conditions in Whitechapel are wifely reported upon. And the Salvation Army got its start here a few years ago, so there is some-" He broke off and swore under his breath. "Damn, I hadn't noticed we'd left Charing Cross Road

  . Heads up, now. We've wandered into St. Giles."

  They'd entered a "traffic circle" marked "Seven Dials" but there was no traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. At the center of the circle stood a dilapidated clock tower with seven fads. Running outward from the tower like mangled spokes from a wheel were seven sunless alleyways and wretched, filthy courtyards. They vanished into a slum that made Whitechapel seem luxurious. A noxious vapor rose from the houses, hanging like fog over sagging rooftops. Broken gin bottles littered the filthy ground. Under layers of filth and dirty ice might have been paved streets.

  "Malcolm ..." She felt as though the blank windows many of them without glass-were staring at her like malicious eyes.

  "These seven streets are the most dangerous place in all London. Watch our backs until we're well out of here."

  From out of the gloom in the dank alleyways, rough men in tattered clothing watched through narrowed eyes. Margo kept a sharp lookout and wished they could break into a run. You'll cope with this on your own as a scout. This is the career you asked Kit Carson to give you.

  At the moment, Margo would almost have traded this for another beating at her father's hands.

  Almost.

  Then she saw furtive movement in the shadows, the glint of steel

  The man who grabbed her from behind laid a straight razor at her throat. She froze,, a scream dying in her throat. Two other toughs materialized in front of Malcolm. Margo realized with a shock, They're younger than I am!

  The feel of sharp steel at her throat left her trembling: Margo's attacker tightened his arm around her waist. "Lookit, 'ee don' even shave yet." The boy's breath was foul. "'ow bouts I teach 'im?"

  The other boys grinned. Their straight razors glinted evilly. Malcolm had gone very still, trapped between them.

  "'and over the tike, mate, an' mibey we let 'im shave 'is own self?"

  While Ma
rgo tried to sort out what, exactly, he'd demanded, Malcolm reached for the money pouch at his waist.

  "Quick, now," the boldest said. He dropped his gaze from Margo to watch Malcolm pluck at his purse strings.

  Margo moved instantly. She grabbed her assailant's wrist, twisting toward him as she shoved the wicked straight razor away from her throat – then grabbed a handful of his crotch and crushed.

  The boy screamed. She continued the turn, dragging his arm up behind him, then kicked the back of his knee. He went down with a gurgling sound and writhed on the ground, holding himself.

  She whirled

  Malcolm had gone absolutely white. "You little idiot

  Before either of the other boys could strike, an enormous bull of a man stepped out from the alleyway and shoved them aside.

  "You 'urt me boy," he said, staring at Margo. The bludgeon he held was as thick as Margo's thigh. His shoulders were twice the size of Malcolm's. He wore a thick woolen coat that covered him almost to the knees. Rough work pants and low, broken shoes completed the picture of the quintessential murderous lout. He grinned at Margo. "First I cracks your skull." He licked dirty lips. "Then me nephews cuts up wot's left."

  Margo was suddenly conscious of other grimy faces in the shadows, watching with inhuman detachment. Malcolm swore and backed away from the trio, turning so they couldn't see him draw his revolver from concealment. The moose in the center hefted his cudgel

  He charged. So fast Margo didn't even have time to scream.

  Malcolm fired three shots and dove to one side. One of the shots hit the man's right ankle. The would-be killer screamed, lurched, and sprawled into the filth. The teenagers ran clattering down an alley. Malcolm whipped around like a cat and grabbed Margo's wrist, dragging her in the opposite direction. They dashed the length of a filthy, stinking alleyway and emerged into St. Giles-in-the-Field. Malcolm dodged into a rank, overgrown churchyard and dragged her behind a crumbling gravestone, then pressed a hard hand over her mouth. They waited, hearts thudding, but Margo heard no immediate sound of pursuit.

  "Reload this," Malcolm said brusquely, thrusting his pistol and the tin from his pocket into her hands. He crept out of the graveyard and eased his way to the edge of the Churchyard, peering back the way they'd come.

  Margo stared stupidly at the gun. The tin was heavy. It rattled She had no idea how to reload this revolver. It wasn't anything like the revolvers Ann Mulhaney had taught her to shoot. She was still staring idiotically at it when Malcolm returned.

  He took the pistol-then swore in language she hadn't known he could use. "You didn't reload!"

  Tears prickled behind her eyes. "I–"

  "First you pull a stupid stunt like fighting that street tough–"

  "But he was robbing us!"

  Malcolm's pallor turned to marble coldness. "I was going to give him the goddamned money! My God, it's just a few pence! You nearly got us both killed–and I had to risk shooting that lout–"

  "You didn't even shoot to kill!"

  If she'd used that tone with her father, he'd have blacked half her face. Malcolm didn't hit her. Instead, his voice went as icy as the filthy stone against which she huddled.

  "We are not at liberty to shoot whomever we please. Getting out of a fatal jam without killing anyone is a time scout's job. If the Britannia Gate opened up right now and Kit stepped through, I'd tell him to send you packing back to whatever miserable little town you came from. Give me the goddamned bullets:"

  She handed over the tin. Her hand shook. Malcolm jerked the cord loose, opened the sliding lid, and dumped three rounds into her hand.

  "You're going to reload this gun right now. Pull up on that T-shaped handle."

  It blurred through hot tears, but she jerked up on it. The whole top of the revolver swung forward and down, revealing the back of the cylinder. Three empty cases and the two unfired rounds popped up slightly. Her fingers shook but she pulled out the spent cases and reloaded the empty chambers. Then she closed the gun up again.;

  "You were supposed to know how to do this. Skip your lessons again and..."

  He left the threat hanging. He'd already destroyed any hope she'd ever entertained of becoming a scout. Her whole chest ached with the need to sob. But she held it all inside, except for the hot, miserable tears she could not quite contain.

  Malcolm checked the alleyway again, leaving her to huddle against the wretched gravestone. She slid down into the weeds and fought the tightness in her throat. I won't give up. I won't. It isn't fair! She'd only done what Sven Bailey had taught her. Hadn't she? Know when to quit, Kit had told her. I won't quit! Not when I've come so far! Somehow, she'd find a way to get back into Malcolm's good graces. She had to. She'd sooner commit suicide than go back to Minnesota a failure.

  During the endless walk up through Spitalfields, Margo listened with everything in her, ruthlessly shoving aside humiliation and terror for the more immediate need to learn. She picked up slang, names for items she'd never seen before, tidbits of news and gossip that led her to several startling conclusions about the state of the world in 1888.

  "Malcolm?" Her voice quavered only a little.

  "Yes?" His voice was still icy.

  "This isn't an ordinary slum, is it? Spitalfields, I mean. It isn't like Whitechapel or St. Giles."

  He glanced back. Some of the chill in his eyes thawed into surprise. "Why do you ask?"

  She bit her lower lip, then nodded toward women who spoke in a language that wasn't English, toward men who dressed in dark coats, wore their beards long, and looked at the world through eyes which had seen too much hardship. "These people look and sound like refugees. Who are they?"

  Malcolm actually halted. Absently he blew against his fingers to warm them while giving Margo an appraising stare.

  "Well, I'll be suckered ...." he said softly.

  She waited, wondering if she'd get a reprieve.

  "Who do you think they are?" He'd given her a challenge.

  She studied the older women, who wore shawls over their hair, watched the younger girls with shining black tresses and shy smiles, the old men with wide-brimmed black hats and hand-woven, fringed vests. The younger people looked hopeful, busy. The older ones seemed uncertain and afraid, suspicious of her and of Malcolm., The language sounded like German, sort of. Then the whole picture clicked.

  Yiddish.

  "They're Jewish refugees," she said slowly. "But from what? Hitler...has he even been born yet?"

  "Hitler was not the first madman to order pogroms against the Jewish communities of Europe. Just the most sweepingly brutal. Stalin was almost as bad, of course. The bloody pogroms going on all across Europe started about eight years ago, in 1880. Jews are being murdered, driven out of their homes, out of their own countries."

  "Then ...what went on during World War II was a ...a sort of continuation of this? Only much worse? I never realized that." Margo looked up and down the street, where kosher slaughterhouses and butcher shops fought for space with tailors' establishments and bakeshops. In that moment, echoing down empty places in her mind she hadn't even known existed, Margo saw connections, running forward into the future from this moment and backward from it. In an instant, her narrow Minnesota universe expanded with dizzying explosiveness into an infinitely larger place with more intricately bound pieces of the human puzzle to try and understand than she had ever thought possible.

  She understood, in a flash, why Malcolm Moore was willing to endure grueling poverty and the humiliation of a freelance guide's life, just to step through one more gate.

  He wanted to understand.

  Margo gazed down those infinite corridors in her mind, filled with endless blank gaps, and knew that she had to fill them in-or at least as many of them as she could before she died trying.

  When she came up for air, Malcolm was staring at her in the oddest fashion, as though she'd just suffered a stroke and hadn't yet found the wit to fall down. The only thing she could think to say was, "They must ha
ve been ...I can't even imagine what they must have thought when Hitler started bombing London."

  Something far back in his eyes changed, in response to what must have been visible in her own. For a moment, Margo knew he understood exactly what was shining inside her. Sudden, unexpected tears filled his eyes. He turned aside and blew out his breath and cleared his throat. A steaming vapor cloud dissipated in the freezing February air.

  "It's half my own fault," he mumbled, "if not more. You were already badly upset and I should have made certain you knew how to operate a top-break revolver before we even set foot through the gate. It's just there's so much to remember, sometimes even experienced guides forget little things like checking up on what your partner knows." A crook of his lips and an embarrassed flush surprised her. "And, well, I'm not really used to halving a partner along."

  Margo found it sudden y impossible to swallow properly "I'm starting to understand, Malcolm. Really, I am. I'm studying every minute we're here. I'm trying to learn how to learn, not just what to learn."

  Malcolm touched her chin. "That's a good beginning, Margo. We'll give it another go, shall we?"

  Her eyes filled in turn. Scouting was about so much more than just adventure and money, that for the first time, Margo wasn't sure she had what it took. She dashed knuckles across her eyes and sniffed hugely. "Thanks, Malcolm. Ever so."

  He tousled her short hair. "Well spoken, young Smythe. It's barely gone noon. You have a good stretch of London left to study." His grin took any possible sting out of the words.

  Wordlessly, Margo set herself the task of trying to understand what she saw around her, rather than just staring at it like a sun-struck tourist.

  Margo studied hard for the duration of their stay. She learned-slowly and painfully-but she learned, nonetheless. Malcolm grilled her endlessly in the evenings with help from John, who was amassing quite a wealth of notes for his own research. Margo recorded observations in her personal log each evening, while they were still fresh in her mind. Even she was surprised by the detail she could recall when she put out the effort.