"Yer cousin, eh? Well, that's diff'rent, innit?" She shrugged. "Right about when might ‘e ‘ave gone by, luv?"
"Half-eight or shortly thereafter."
"I weren't ‘ere at ‘alf-eight, tonight nor any other. I got a job at the Black Eagle Brewery, I ‘ave, what I gets up at six o'clock of a morning for, t' earn shilling an' sixpence a week, an' I don't leave brewery ‘ouse til nigh on ‘alf-nine of a night. Weren't ‘ere at ‘alf-eight, luv."
A shilling and sixpence. Eighteen cents a week, for a job that started at six A.M. and ran fifteen hours or more a shift. It was little wonder she was out here on the street after dark, trying to earn a few extra pence however she could. He sighed, then met her narrow-eyed gaze. "I see, madame. Well, thank you, anyway." He held up a shining silver florin. "If you could think of anyone who might have been hereabouts at that hour?"
She snatched the coin—nearly two weeks' wages—from his fingers. "G'wan down to Davy's, ask round there. Pub's open til all hours, anybody could've seen ‘im. Ain't like we see gents every night o' th' week, these parts."
"Indeed? Thank you, ma'am, and good evening."
He was aware of her stare as he rejoined the ladies and followed the straining Alfie at the end of his leash. By dawn, the story of the missing gent and his grieving fiancée would be news from one end of the district to the other. With any luck, word of Benny Catlin might yet shake loose—particularly in the hopes of a cash "donation" for information given. Meanwhile, Alfie was whining and straining in the direction of Davy's Pub at the end of Holywell Street where it rejoined the Strand once more. Music and laughter reached up the narrow lane as they approached the busy public house, brightly lit by a multitude of gas lamps. Its windows and placard-plastered walls advertised Scotch and Irish Whiskeys... Wainey, Comb, and Reid fine ales... favorite brands of stout... and, of course, Walker's.
Malcolm wasn't dressed for mingling in such a crowd, but Auley Shannon was. He nodded slightly at Malcolm, then disappeared into the packed pub. Malcolm waited patiently with Margo and Shahdi Feroz and the others, noting the location of another pub, The Rising Sun, across the road where Wych Street emerged just the other side of Davy's. Beyond, in the wide avenue that lay beyond the conjunction of the two narrow, old streets, lay the ancient facade of St. Clement Danes Church, another island church built in the center of the Strand. Its high steeple was topped with what appeared to be a miniature, columned Greek temple, barely visible now between drizzle-laden clouds and streaks of jagged lightning.
And in another of London's abrupt transitions, where glittering wealth shared a line of fenceposts with criminal poverty, where the narrow Wych and Holywell Streets intersected the Strand, a sharp line of demarcation divided the dark poverty-stricken regions behind them, separating it from the expensive, well-to-do houses and shops right in front of Malcolm, shops and houses that stood in a stately double row to either side of the street, lining the Strand, itself. Such abrupt changes from deepest poverty to startling wealth, within half-a-block of one another, placed destitute men and women with no hope at all side-by-side with socially ambitious businessmen and their ladies, ensconced in fine houses, with servants and carriages and luxuries their neighbors could never aspire to owning through any means except thievery.
And thievery was exactly how many a denizen of SoHo obtained such items.
Studying the intersection and judging the lay of the land and the inhabitants of the various buildings within view, Malcolm realized they'd need to field a good-sized search party through this area just to question all the potential witnesses. Five minutes later, Shannon emerged from Davy's, looking hopeful. "Blokes are suspicious o' strangers," he said quietly, "an' rightly so, what wiv coppers lookin' t'nick ‘alf the blokes in there, I'd reckon, but I pointed out Miss Smith, ‘ere, give ‘em the bare bones of what's ‘appened. Got a few of ‘em t'thaw a bit, seein' the lady cryin' and all. Must be ‘alf a dozen blokes said they saw a bloke wot might've been ‘im." He paused, with a glance toward Margo, then cleared his throat. "Wot they saw was a woman walk past, Mr. Moore, carryin' a wounded gentleman. Walkin' quick-like, as if to find a surgeon. Blokes remembered, on account of that poor streetwalker, Martha Tabram, ‘oo got ‘erself stabbed to death August Bank ‘oliday, an' on account of it were so queer, seein' a woman in a patched dress and ragged bonnet, carryin' a gentleman in a fine suit wiv a shabby old coat wrapped round ‘is head."
Malcolm paled, even as Margo blanched and clutched at Shahdi Feroz. "Odd," Malcolm muttered, "How deuced odd."
"You've the right o' that, sir."
"It's unlikely a woman would have attacked Mr. Catlin. Perhaps she found him lying on the street, injured, and was, indeed, carrying him to safety with a surgeon. Mr. Catlin was a slightly built young man, after all, and wouldn't have proved difficult to lift and carry, for a stout woman." Margo nodded, wiping tears from her face with the back of one gloved hand. "Mr. Shannon, Miss Shannon, lead on, please. Let's see how much farther this trail will take us."
As it happened, that was not much farther at all. Alfie crossed the Strand right along the front of the old Danish church, where the street curved around to the south. Tailors' establishments and boot sellers' shops advertised their wares to wealthy families able to afford their trade. But where Millford Lane cut off to the south near the rear corner of St. Clement Danes, the skies cut loose with a stinging downpour of rain and Alfie lost the trail. The dog hesitated, cast about the wet pavement in confusion and ever-widening circles, and finally sat back on its haunches, whining unhappily while runoff poured, ankle deep, past their feet in the gutters. Maeve pulled her coat collar up around her neck, then bent and patted the dog's shoulder and ruffled its wet, clamped back ears, speaking gently to it.
Malcolm noted the presence of a few hansom cabs along the Strand, waiting hopefully for customers from amongst the wealthier gentlemen Malcolm could see here and there along the street, some of them escorting well-dressed ladies out to carriages under cover of taut umbrellas, and said, "Well, perhaps Mr. Catlin's benefactress hired a cab?"
It was, at least, worth the asking, although he doubted a woman as shabbily clad as the one the men in Davey's pub had described would've been able to afford the cost of a hansom cab fare.
Miss Shannon patted her dog's wet side and glanced around. "Pr'aps, sir. I'm that sorry, I am, ‘bout the rain. ‘E's a good tracker, Alfie is, but no dog born wot'll trace a man through a downpour like this."
"I fear not. Very well," Malcolm said briskly, "we shall simply have to proceed along different lines. Mr. Shannon, I believe the terms of our agreement include pressing inquiries amongst potential witnesses at whatever point your fine Alsatian lost the trail? If you and your granddaughter would be so good as to assist us, I feel we might yet make good progress this evening. Try the cabbies, there, if you please. Stoddard, if you'll broach the denizens of the Rising Sun Pub, I'll endeavor to strike up a conversation with some of the gentlemen out for the evening's merriment and dinner parties. Ladies, if you would be so good as to secure a hansom cab? I hope we may need one shortly."
"Yes, sir."
"Of course, Mr. Moore."
"Right, sir. Let's give ‘er a go, then, Maeve."
Over the course of the next half-hour, Malcolm spoke with dozens of gentlemen and their stout, respectable wives, the latter dressed in satins and bonnets with drooping feathers under widespread umbrellas, inquiring politely about an ill-dressed woman assisting a wounded gentleman of their class. The answers he received were civil, concerned, and entirely negative, which left Malcolm increasingly frustrated as well as thoroughly soaked. Lightning flared overhead, sizzled down to strike chimney pots and church steeples with crashes of thunder that sent the well-dressed citizenry scrambling for doorways and covered carriages.
They couldn't stay out in this kind of weather any longer, searching.
London was a vast maze of streets and lanes. The number of places an unwary time tourist could go fatally astray would have
sobered the most optimistic of searchers. Malcolm hurried back down the Strand, calling for Stoddard and the Shannons. They rejoined Margo and Shahdi Feroz, who had secured the services of the nearest hansom cab and were huddled inside it, out of the downpour. None of the others had found so much as a trace, either.
"There's nothing more to be done, here, in this weather," Malcolm shouted above the crash of thunder.
Margo's performance inside the hansom cab, weeping distraughtly and leaning against Shahdi Feroz, left Mr. Shannon clearing his throat in sympathy. Maeve Shannon stepped up onto the running board and leaned in to put a comforting hand on Margo's shoulder, said something too low for Malcolm to hear, at which Margo nodded and replied, "Thank you, Miss Shannon. Thank you..."
"I'm that sorry, I am, miss, but I'm sure it'll come right." Maeve smiled at Margo, then stepped back down to the pavement and called her dog to heel. Malcolm handed over Mr. Shannon's fee for the night's work and a bonus for Maeve's unexpected sympathy to Margo, which he felt deserved recognition of some kind. The Shannons might be accustomed to the harshness of life in Whitechapel, where they kept their inquiry agency, but they were good and decent people, nonetheless. The inquiry agent and his granddaughter wished him luck and hurried off into the downpour with Alfie trotting between them, seeking shelter from the rising storm. Malcolm sighed heavily, then secured a cab of his own to follow Margo and Shahdi Feroz back to Spaldergate, and settled down for a clattering ride through night-shrouded streets. Stoddard, riding silently beside him, was grim in the actinic glare of lightning bolts streaking through London's night sky.
Somewhere out there, Benny Catlin was known, to someone.
Malcolm intended finding that someone. All it required was a bit of luck added to the hard work ahead. In the swaying darkness of the hansom, Malcolm grimaced. This was not a good time for reminding himself that before Margo had come into his life, Malcolm's luck had run to the notoriously bad. Malcolm Moore was not a superstitious man by nature, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that on this particular hunt, luck just might not be with him.
He could only pray that it had been with Benny Catlin.
If not, they might yet locate him in a morgue.
Chapter Nine
Gideon Guthrie poured a drink from an expensive cut-crystal decanter and moved quietly to the window. Night had fallen across the city, turning the filthy sprawl of New York into a fairy-land jewel at his feet. Behind him, the television flickered silently, sound muted. Gideon frowned slowly, then sipped at his scotch. John Caddrick had given quite a performance for the press today. How the sociopathic bastard was able to summon tears for the cameras, Gideon didn't know. But the press had eaten it up, delighted with the ratings points Caddrick's grief gave them. Which played quite nicely into Gideon's plans. What worried Gideon, however, and it worried his boss, as well, was Caddrick's tendency to explosive fits of temper. They played a very delicate game, Gideon and Cyril Barris and the senator, a damned delicate game. Caddrick's notorious temperament was just as likely to prove a liability as an asset.
It was too bad about the girl, in a sense, although Caddrick didn't seem to give a damn that Gideon had ordered a fatal hit on the Senator's own daughter. Of course, Caddrick wasn't stupid and there'd never been any love lost between those two. If Gideon and his political ally played it right, Cassie Tyrol's impulsive decision to tell her niece would play into Cyril Barris' long-range plans brilliantly. All Gideon had to do was keep Caddrick's temper from screwing things up. A man like John Caddrick was priceless in Congress, where that temper and his ruthless ability to play the filthy game of politics made him a devastating enemy and a cunning advocate. But Caddrick's flair for playing the press could easily backfire, if they weren't incredibly careful. The senator's call for investigating the Ansar Majlis, claiming they'd kidnapped his daughter, worked wonders for television ratings. And it would doubtless fire up a world-wide demand for the destruction of the very terrorists Gideon had chosen to further his employer's plans. Which was, ultimately, the precise outcome both Cyril Barris and Gideon, himself, wanted.
But too close an investigation into the Ansar Majlis could prove risky.
Very risky.
He'd have to keep a close watch on John Caddrick, all right. Their timetable was moving along right on schedule, with only one minor hitch, which ought to've been effectively eliminated, by now. He'd sent a good team onto TT-86 to destroy Ianira and her whole family, not to mention finishing up the job with Jenna Caddrick and that miserable, meddlesome detective, Noah Armstrong. Gideon scowled and poured himself another scotch. That was one complication he hadn't anticipated. Cassie Tyrol, actress, six-time divorcee, and scatter-brained Templar, was the last person Gideon had expected to hire a detective, for God's sake, to investigate her own brother-in-law's business practices. And who'd have guessed she would come so damned unglued over the seemingly accidental death of that little bastard, Alston Corliss, who'd taped all the evidence on Caddrick? How, in fact, had she even known about it, so soon? She'd bolted hours before the FBI had leaked word to the press. Armstrong again, no doubt.
Alston Corliss was yet another reason to worry about the senator. If a goddamned actor could ferret out that kind of evidence on the senator's activities... .When this was over and done with, maybe it would be a good idea to bring about Caddrick's political downfall. Do it subtly, so Caddrick would never suspect Gideon had orchestrated it. Yes, he'd have to look into that. Suggest it to Cyril Barris as a potential course of action for the future, after they'd culled everything useful they could from Caddrick's position in government. Meanwhile, Noah Armstrong had somehow absconded with a copy of that goddamned, incriminating tape, the original of which they'd found and destroyed. Maybe Corliss had used the stinking Internet to send it, with streaming video technology. However he'd gotten the tape to Armstrong, out in California, it spelled certain disaster for their plans if they didn't get it back before Armstrong found a way to contact the authorities.
Gideon knocked back the scotch and swore under his breath. Complications like this, he did not need. But he had the situation under control again, thank God, so all he had to do now was keep an eye on John Caddrick and make sure nothing else went wrong. If anything else did... Heads would by God roll. Gideon scowled. The senator had believed for years he was calling the shots. Fine. Let him. If Caddrick screwed up one more time, he'd find out the bitter truth, fast. It would almost be worth the trouble, to see the shock on his face.
Gideon switched off the television and settled himself to set in motion the events necessary to bring about the end of a powerful politician's career.
Chapter Ten
It was a vastly subdued Margo who returned to Spaldergate House in a driving downpour, with lightning sizzling in the night skies and Benny Catlin missing and wounded somewhere beyond their reach. After the preoccupation of their abortive search, it was actually a shock to return to the warmth and brightness of Spaldergate and the lively discussion amongst the Ripper scholars, who cared absolutely nothing about a missing time tourist. All except Shahdi Feroz. Margo still wondered why she'd volunteered to accompany them.
An argument broke out the moment they returned, as to which scholars would go into the East End to help place the final surveillance equipment at the first murder scene. Not to be outdone, Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast joined the fray.
"We're coming along, as well."
Pavel Kostenka said, "You are not qualified—"
"I've been on more undercover photoshoots than you have credentials strung out behind your name!"
"And you are a two-bit, muckraking—"
"Two-bit my arse! I'll have you know—"
"Enough!" Malcolm's stern voice cut through the babble and silenced the entire lot of them. "I'll make the decision as to who goes and who stays! Is that clear?"
Even Margo gulped, staring wide-eyed at her infuriated fiancé.
"Now. Miss Nosette, Mr. Pendergast, the terms of the Ripper
Watch contract include you as the only journalists. It would be remiss of us if you did not accompany the team members placing the equipment, tonight, to record the attempt for posterity. I presume you've brought low-light, miniaturized cameras?"
"I know my trade," the blond reporter said with an icy chill in her voice, glaring at Kostenka. "And my equipment."
Kostenka just shrugged and pretended to find the carpet utterly absorbing.
"Very well. I would suggest you go and get that equipment ready. We'll leave the house at two A.M. If you're not dressed for the East End and waiting in the carriage drive, we'll leave without you. Now then, Margo, please be good enough to help them select costumes. They haven't been into the East End. Assist Dr. Feroz with that as well. I'll want you along, Inspector," he glanced at Conroy Melvyn, the Scotland Yard chief inspector who'd been named head of the Ripper Watch team, "and the others can prepare the relay and recording equipment on the roof and down in the vault."
There were grumbles, but clearly, the Ripper Watch team had grown accustomed to taking Malcolm's orders when it came to his decisions as head guide.
"Very good. I expect you all have someplace better to be than standing about in the parlour, with your mouths hanging open."
The assembled scholars and journalists dispersed quickly. Only Conroy Melvyn seemed to find the situation humorous. The police inspector winked at Malcolm as he strolled out in the wake of the disgruntled scholars. Then Margo was alone with Malcolm, at last.
"Margo, I'm afraid you're not going to like what I have to say next."
"Oh, no, Malcolm, please let me come with you!"
He grimaced. "That isn't it. Quite the opposite, in fact." He rubbed the back of his neck distractedly. "It's this blasted business with Catlin. Thank God you've come. I've got to work with the Gilberts, organize some plan of attack to search for him. We'll try the hospitals, the workhouse infirmaries, anywhere Catlin might have gone seeking medical attention."
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