“On the other hand, Dora . . .” Katie said casually, too casually. “As long as Toby’s name is cleared and he’s not under any suspicion, I’ll bet the Duke of Twyford would pay far more than any newspaper to keep his grandson’s name out of the press.” Katie was thinking about her own cousin back home, and how he’d hate it if he knew Jack the Ripper was his ancestor. “I’d wager the Duke might even set you up in your own little shop.”
Dora giggled. “Now why didn’t I thinks of that? Blimey, wiff all the terrible goings on, I seem to have lost me wits. You’d make a right fine Cockney, Katie. A Robin Hood East Ender.”
“Robin Hood. . . ?”
“Good,” Toby whispered in her ear. “You’d make a good Cockney.” There was pride in his voice as together they watched Dora trot off in the direction of the Tower of London, sand crunching beneath her feet as she disappeared into the swirling mist.
Toby clamped a firm hand on Katie’s elbow and guided her in the opposite direction, through piles of construction rubble along the shoreline, mud oozing at their feet, clam bubbles gurgling up through the muck.
Halfway up the rocky slope of the embankment, Katie glanced over her shoulder. She could see Dora’s hazy form hastening toward the Tower of London, which seemed to rise out of the early morning mist like a giant sandcastle; the archway of Traitors’ Gate, with its dock and ferry landing, was blanketed in ribbons of swirling fog.
Katie caught movement from the corner of her eye. Something was barrel-rolling in the waves close to shore.
“Look!”
They both stared out across the water.
Tangled in a web of seaweed as if caught in a fishing net, Collin’s lifeless body bobbed in the waves.
Katie gasped and began to choke and sputter from the sulfur fumes and the smell of dead fish as they watched Collin’s body rise and dip with the foam rolling in with the tide. Then, with a swooshing, sucking sound, the current tugged his bulk beneath the surface.
They waited, but Collin’s body never popped back up. The seaweed and the weight of his clothes had dragged him under.
Collin can’t hurt anyone ever again! Katie thought with relief as they scrambled up the rest of the embankment. Dora Fowler, Lady Beatrix, the pregnant Molly Potter, and Mary Jane Kelly are all safe now!
At the top of the slope, Katie glanced down at her hands. The skin on her wrists was flickering. Everything will be okay, she told herself. I just have to get to the London Stone! She took several deep nervous breaths, filling her lungs with the salty air until, like a pumped up balloon, she felt ready to burst. “We did it, Toby!” she cried. “We stopped the most vicious serial killer in British history. I only wish we had saved Major Brown . . . and the others.”
“Major Brown died as he would have wanted to, Katie. In the line of duty. He was one of the bravest and shrewdest men at Scotland Yard. There is no more honorable way to die. He knew the risks. He took an oath. It will be the same for me when I join Scotland Yard. I’ll take risks to serve and protect. Major Brown died a hero’s death.”
Katie nodded. “At least now, Collin can’t hurt anyone ever again. We made that happen, Toby. We changed history.”
But by nightfall—in her own century—Katie would rue the day she’d ever attempted to change history.
•
Minutes after watching Collin’s body disappear beneath the waves of the Thames, Katie and Toby climbed into the horse-drawn carriage that Collin had paid to wait by the construction pier, and as the horses clip-clopped through the narrow streets of London, and the choking smell of the incoming tide receded, Katie thrust her head out the window trying to take in every last sight and sound before returning home. Her work here was finished. They hadn’t saved Major Brown or Elizabeth Stride or Catherine Eddowes, but they had stopped Jack the Ripper and ascertained his identity. Lady Beatrix and the others were safe. That’s why I came here. That’s what I wished for at the London Stone. To go back in time and save Lady Beatrix!
Katie’s eyes misted as she stared at the scene unfolding outside the carriage. Fish stores, pastry shops, boarding houses, and a butcher shop, whose peaked roof was outlined like a sharp dagger against the early morning sky, sped by until the carriage pulled up to the curb in front of St. Swithin’s.
And there it was.
Protruding out of the side of the church’s outermost wall, nestled in a niche behind black wrought-iron bars, sat the whitish-grey boulder. The London Stone.
Whether it was the rock that King Arthur had drawn his sword from, or a Druid altar used for human sacrifice, or the Stone of Brutus—Katie would never know. But one thing was certain. The craggy edifice, known for centuries as the London Stone, had paranormal powers.
Clutching Toby’s hand tightly in her own, Katie followed him down the gravel path, through the moss-covered headstones in the churchyard strewn with honeysuckle and roses.
“This is where I first met you, Toby,” she said, stopping to breathe in the heady scent of the flowers. “I thought the other Toby and my cousin—my real cousin—were playing a joke on me. I thought this was all part of a multimedia exhibit at Madame Tussauds.”
“A multi . . . what?”
Katie smiled and squeezed his hand. She thought about the first time she’d ever laid eyes on Collin Twyford—the future Duke of Twyford—Jack the Ripper! She remembered how his red hair, parted with razor precision down the center of his head, had been slicked back on the sides. She had a clear image of Collin’s stiff winged collar, his frock coat, his floppy necktie—and how she thought at the time that it was some sort of wardrobe costume change. She hadn’t for a moment believed—at least at first—that she had traveled back in time. If only I knew then what I know now!
She stared over Toby’s shoulder at the side door of the church. It was on those steps that she’d first seen Reverend Pinker trotting down the granite risers with Lady Beatrix. Beatrix had been wearing the exact same dress as the one in the portrait hanging over the mantelpiece in Katie’s bedroom back home. The half-finished portrait that Katie now knew had been painted by James Whistler.
“It’s time to go, pet,” Toby said, pulling her gently forward until they were standing in front of the London Stone.
A breeze swept past, and Katie felt something prickle up her neck. Early morning sunshine dappled the graveyard with sparkling glints of light, warming the air, but Katie felt something ominous and cold and dark . . . as if something were lurking just around the corner.
Toby glanced at her inquisitively. Behind him, Katie could see the church steeple piercing the pale sky above his head, clouds swirling around the spire.
She tugged at Toby’s hand, drawing instinctively back.
What is it? What am I feeling? Katie wondered. Sadness about leaving . . . or something else? Something was floating on the fringe of her consciousness like the diaphanous clouds overhead. But what? The sensation was like searching for a word on the tip of your tongue that won’t materialize. Something . . . something . . . something she’d known or had sensed all along . . .
“What is it, ham shank?” Toby looked concerned.
Katie swallowed hard, focusing her attention back to the present. She smiled at the Cockney word for Yank. She was a Yankee about to return home . . . but not to Boston, to London. Her London. Her time period. “I’m going to miss you, Toby. I’m going to miss everyone and everything in this century. But most of all, I’m going to miss you.”
“I know that, lass. But it’s time. You may have—”
“Worn out my welcome?”
“Not that. Never that. But you’re fading in and out. Disappearing, like. If I were a superstitious bloke, I’d say you were a witch . . . or a ghost.”
“I am a ghost. Or will be.”
“I think it’s me who will be the ghost,” Toby said, his voice unbearably sad. “I’ll be long dead and buried in a pauper’s grave by the time you return to your own century.”
“Hardly a pauper’s grave, Tob
y. You’re going to be a great success in whatever you do. You’ll probably be a famous detective at Scotland Yard, known far and wide for your ingenious methods of detection. Like Sherlock Holmes. When I get home I’ll Google you on the Internet.”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll look you up in the . . . er . . . history books . . . at the library. Also, your great-great-grandson—the other Toby—might know what became of you.”
“Good luck with that, Miss Katie. Rattling skeletons, like teacups, in the old family cupboard is never a good idea. Now give us a kiss, lass—and let’s get you on your way.”
“Write to me! Leave a message in the Duke’s stuffed vulture. I’ll read it as soon as I get home. Promise me you’ll do that?”
He nodded and nudged her closer to the stone.
But Katie didn’t want to leave. She clung to his good arm and motioned to his other in the sling. “You’ve got to see a doctor and get your arm put in a cast.”
“A what?”
“Don’t you have casts in the nineteenth century?”
“We have splints. They’ll straighten the bone and secure my arm using plaster of Paris.”
“Ouch.”
“Don’t worry. It will mend. It’s my heart I’m bleedin’ fearful of. It won’t mend any time soon.”
“Because of Collin and Major Brown?”
“Because of you.”
That’s when he kissed her. A slow, deep, lingering kiss. A kiss that set off sparks and made her legs wobble.
“I’ll never forget you,” Katie whispered, feeling dizzy and off balance as tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Nor I, you.”
“Promise you’ll write? Something. Anything I can remember you by.” Katie was sobbing.
Toby nodded and bent closer. “Here’s another promise for you, lass. In my heart, I shall love you forever. Throughout time, throughout history, throughout eternity.” And with that, he gently guided her index finger through the metal bars toward the pitted hole in the London Stone.
Katie’s pulse raced.
Love you forever? Is that what Toby had said?
And a moment later, Katie was hurtling through time and space.
Chapter Fifty-seven
Mountebanks and Liars say the Bells of Blackfriars
A deafening explosion. Shock waves pounded through Katie’s body. She was falling, falling, falling, her limbs and torso tumbling this way and that as a cacophony of roaring sounds reverberated in her head, along with familiar words: Beware of what you wish for . . . !
When the gut-wrenching sensation of free-falling finally subsided, Katie took a deep, shuddering breath, but kept her eyes shut against the intense bright light flashing against her lids.
A voice was shouting at her.
And what was that smell? Peanut butter and smoky cheese?
The shouting grew louder as if a tin can were rattling inside her skull, clanking and banging.
“You all right, luv?”
“Stop yelling!” Katie moaned, clamping her hands over her ears and squinting her eyes open a crack.
“Not shouting.” It was Toby—the twenty-first–century Toby — peering at her in an odd way.
Katie gave a weak smile. “Just whisper, Toby. Please. It sounds as if my eardrums will burst.”
Toby was standing in front of her, his black duster skimming his ankles, his dark hair falling to his shoulders. With his strong jaw and piercing brown eyes, he looked like her own Toby, only taller, less broad across the chest. His nose wasn’t crooked like her Toby’s; his front teeth weren’t chipped; and his complexion was clear—no knife scars or pitted indentations from childhood diseases. Katie felt a pang of regret that swirled in her gut until Toby turned his full dark gaze on her and said, “How do you know my name?”
Katie froze, then slowly lowered her hands from her ears.
“What do you mean?” she choked out in a hoarse whisper. “Of course I know your name.”
“Well, I don’t know yours. And unless I was totally stoned out of my gourd when I met you, I’m sure I’d remember a twist ’n’ swirl with such a beautiful boat race.”
“Toby, it’s me! Katie.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Shit! Don’t you know who I am?”
He looked blank.
“I’m Collin’s cousin!” Katie cried. “Katie Lennox.”
“Sorry, luv. Dunno anyone named Collin. Care for a Milk Dud?” He held out his hand, but she noticed it was shaking slightly. He was nervous. Or worried. Or lying.
What’s going on? Katie wondered. “Is this one of your stupid rum and cokes, Toby? Because if it is, it’s not funny.”
Again the blank look, but the hand holding out the chocolate candy was definitely not steady.
“I’m Collin’s cousin,” Katie said slowly, patiently. “His American cousin. His ham shank cousin? Please tell me you’re pulling my leg, Toby.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know anyone named Collin.”
“Collin Twyford. He goes to school with you.”
Toby shook his head. “Sorry, luv.” He took a step closer. “Look. You’re looking a bit green around the gills. Pale as a ghost, actually. There’s a god-awful little tea shop downstairs, soupy little biscuits, but if you’d care to—”
Katie’s stomach tightened. “There’s no time for . . . tea! I need to find Collin.” Her eyes swiveled to her backpack on the ground. She lunged for it, and tugged out her cell phone from the inner pocket.
“No mobiles allowed in the museum,” Toby warned.
“I don’t give a crap,” Katie said, feeling oddly emboldened. “I just helped push the most notorious serial killer in British history over the side of a pier. I don’t have time for cell phone rules. I need to know—”
She held up her iPhone and scrolled down the list of her contacts. No Collin.
There’s a glitch in my phone, she told herself, and hastily tapped in his number, which she knew by heart, but got someone else’s voice message. She swiveled her gaze back to Toby.
“Omigod! Collin hasn’t been born! I mean, he couldn’t have been born. I killed his ancestor. His direct ancestor! Collin never married Prudence Farthington. So my Aunt Pru—”
“Slow down.”
“No, you slow down! What am I going to do? I can’t go back and change everything to the way it was, like you did, Toby. I can’t!”
“What do you mean . . . like I did?”
“You told me the London Stone transported you back in time as well—but in the end, you had to go back and undo everything. You asked me if I’d ever read ‘The Raven’s Claw.’ It’s a short story about—”
“I know. I know. It’s about a guy who changes history then uses his last wish to return everything back the way it was. But about time travel . . . I never told anyone—”
“Well, you told me.”
“I swore on my grandfather’s grave, I wouldn’t reveal it to anyone. What did I tell you . . . exactly?”
“Oh, Toby. I can’t remember exactly. Something about Madeleine Smith who killed her lover with arsenic in the eighteen hundreds.”
“Yes. Okay. Now I believe you. We’ve obviously met before. Tell me about this cousin of yours . . . ?”
“His name’s Collin, and I just helped push his ancestor over a very high construction pier—where the future Tower Bridge will be built. Has been built. It was built, right?”
Toby nodded. “Why did you push—”
“He was Jack the Ripper!”
“Who?”
“You never heard of Jack the Ripper?”
“Nope.”
“Does that mean there’s no Jack the Ripper exhibit here in the Chamber of Horrors?”
“There’s a gruesome one about an ax-murderess, the Demon Duchess of Devon. But no Jack—”
Katie grabbed Toby’s sleeve. “What am I going to do? I can’t go back and change everything to the way it was! I can’t—”
&
nbsp; “You can. And you have to. At least that’s what I did. If generations of your cousin’s family have been wiped out, it doesn’t look as if you have a choice, Katie. I went back and undid all the harm I’d caused. Just like my grandfather did when he was my age.”
“Your grandfather knew about the London Stone? Did he . . . by any chance . . . learn about it from his . . . father?”
“His grandfather. My namesake. Tobias Becket.”
“Jeez! I just kissed your . . . er . . . um . . . I was just talking to your great-great-grandfather. He promised . . . oh, never mind. Look. I can’t go back and undo everything. If I do . . . innocent people will die. Lady Beatrix, Dora Fowler, Molly Potter, and Mary Jane Kelly will all have their throats slit and their bodies eviscerated. And Molly Potter is pregnant!”
“Katie, luv. If your cousin was alive when you left, but isn’t now, you’ve likely wiped out far more than four people—”
“But he’s related to Jack the Ripper! Maybe it’s for the best! Maybe my cousin Collin has these, like, weird genes that shouldn’t be passed on!”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Wait! Maybe Collin was born after all. But has a different name. You told me that I could change small things, but not big ones. Maybe—” But Katie couldn’t dismiss the uneasy feeling in her gut that she’d wiped out generations of her cousin’s family.
“Katie. Tell me what happened. Tell me everything. Start at the beginning.”
Katie took a deep breath and began talking fast. Very fast. She told Toby the saga of what happened in the year 1888 when Jack the Ripper began his rampage. And though she rambled a bit, when she finally came to the part about Collin’s tumbling over the edge of the pier into the Thames, Toby nodded his head.
“Katie,” he said, his voice grim and low. “You’ve got to go back and change things to the way they were.”
“No. Not until I’ve checked. Maybe Collin’s here. Or maybe there’s a reason he’s not here. Maybe he’s not meant to have been born.”
Ripped, a Jack the Ripper Time-Travel Thriller Page 43