by Forbes, Kit
Poll. Polly? Polly Nichols, the first “official” victim of Jack the Ripper? Or was it someone with a similar name?
Either way, I realized Genie was too close to all this and she had no real reason to be. She meant well, but she could get herself raped or killed. My stomach twisted thinking of all the things that could happen to a girl like her in a place like this. Just because she wasn’t on the list of the Ripper’s victims didn’t mean there weren’t more who hadn’t made it into the history books.
The thought of her being in the wrong place at the wrong time was a real threat, especially because I remembered hearing at the conference about the Whitehall corpse—the unidentified, possibly young woman whose dismembered, headless torso was found during this general this time frame.
“You really need to stop sneaking down here when your parents are both out. Tend to your ladies during the day, or least before it gets totally dark.”
“I come to help whenever I can,” she replied icily, eyeing my hand on her arm almost like it was a bug. “If it was possible to set a schedule of regular hours I would, but between my parents’ attitudes and the fact women don’t come out until later, I tend to them when I am able.”
“I still wish you’d stay out of this area at night.”
She pulled away from me, her chin tilted defiantly. “Mr. Stewart, need I remind you that you are neither my father nor, God forbid, my fiancé? What makes you think you have the right to tell me what you would have me do?”
“Would it matter if I were, God forbid, your fiancé? Would you listen to me then?”
Genie opened her mouth as if to argue but apparently thought better of it. Instead, she said, “I need to be down here at night. With this latest murder, maybe they’ll listen to me about doing what’s necessary to better themselves.”
“And if they don’t?” I asked. “Will you stop?”
Genie’s eyes lost focus, as if thinking of something else, before snapping back to mine. “If they don’t listen, then it’ll be on their heads, won’t it? Maybe they’ll listen to reason if enough of them are murdered.”
I blinked, sure I was taking things the wrong way. “Are you saying you think this murder spree might be a good thing? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Genie smiled. “I wouldn’t expect it to.”
I wasn’t going to go there no matter how much my mind spun off into my mom’s wild “what if” territory. I rubbed the back of my neck. “Look, I want you to stay safe, okay? Maybe I’d rather not see you end up beaten, raped, murdered. I’m sorry if saying it straight out offends you. It’s just the way it is.”
She tilted her chin up a little more and I walked away before she tried some lame argument.
“Mr. Stewart?” Genie’s voice reached out. Her tone was quiet, not at all as belligerent as I’d have expected.
I stopped, turned slowly, and waited for her to continue.
“There is a very fine line between expressing concern and exercising control.” She tensed, as if trying to decide whether to stay or leave.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “And there’s a fine line between independence and acting like a fool.”
We glared at each other, neither willing to give in. She looked awfully cute and I really wanted to kiss her.
I caved in the stare down just to get my mind off her pretty face. “I wish there was a place you could learn some self-defense moves.”
“Self-defense moves?” She sniffed her disgust like I’d offered a bed romp instead. “People know me here. There are bobbies within earshot at all times.”
I shrugged again and strolled back towards her, my head down, hands in my pockets. Without warning, I snapped my right arm out and grabbed her across the base of her throat, spun her around as my left hand covered her mouth. Just as quickly I released her, she stumbled away in an incoherent rage.
“Hell of a lot of good a ‘bobby within earshot’ would have done if someone really wanted to hurt you.” I stalked off, half hoping she’d call me back like before, half determined to ignore her if she did.
She didn’t make a sound.
And I brooded about it all the way back to my room.
***
The timid knock well after dark catapulted me off the narrow bed. I flung open the door words pouring out of my mouth. “Look, I’m sorry—” The woman who stood there wasn’t Genie.
She was a middle-aged lady, not well dressed, with the look of a frightened rabbit. “Mr. Stewart?”
My embarrassment faded when I realized that, despite the argument, Genie must have sent her to me. There was no other way she would have known who I was or where to find me.
“Were you sent by Miss Trambley?”
She nodded. “I’m Poll.”
But not that Poll. Still, she might know something. I stepped aside. “Come in. Or would you rather go round the corner to a public place like a pub?”
She slipped inside and motioned me to close the door. “No, better ‘ere. Fewer curious eyes and ears to notice.”
I pulled out the chair at the table for her. “Can I offer you a cup of tea? Sorry, but I don’t have anything stronger.”
She shook her head. “Mebbe a couple o’ pence after I tell ya what I know?”
I nodded.
“I saw ‘im,” she said suddenly. “I saw the bloke with the Tabram woman. Not a hour before she was killed. And I saw ‘im clear.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mark
Unfortunately what “saw him clear” meant to her wasn’t anything like what it meant to me or anyone else. Her description was so generic that half the guys in this place fit it: “Not tall as you but not short. Dark eyes…maybe, fair hair, I think. No, darker.”
I gave up that goose chase and set out to look for one of the Ripper’s future victims or anyone else who might give me a lead, but came up empty-handed there, too.
I finally fell into bed near dawn, exhausted and frustrated.
The fringes of a dream slipped through my mind just as I awoke. It was Agatha, in what looked like someone’s living room, trying to tell me something about staying put, about being needed.
It seemed so real, but it faded so fast once a stream of light hit my face I figured it was just my subconscious trying to sort things out. I couldn’t imagine being needed here. But I knew what I needed—to be home in the world I understood. As far from this place as possible. And the way to get home was to find the Ripper and stop him.
But how?
Even though people here treated me more like adult than anyone back home, I was just a kid so following up on any of the many likely suspects would be too hard.
But there were only a handful of future victims.
I washed up, got dressed, then headed out. Down in the tea shop, I wondered how I could find Polly Nichols, who was to be murdered three weeks from now, on August thirty-first.
Three more weeks of life in this weird wonderland was not going to be fun times. I sat staring into space, trying to think. There had to be something I overlooked. But damned if I knew what it was.
***
Genie
Mark was staring out the window as I entered Mrs. O’Connell’s shop. I was certain he’d seen me come in but, when he failed to acknowledge my presence, I hesitated, wondering if he was still angry about yesterday. It would be just like a man to hold a grudge over something like a petty disagreement.
Best to pretend nothing had happened.
“Our Mr. Stewart is certainly lost in his thoughts, Mrs. O’Connell. Whatever do you think he’s dreaming of?”
Mark’s head snapped around and he stared at me vacantly.
“It’d be my guess he fancies finding a nice respectable, West End lady to settle down with.”
Mark looked from Mrs. O’Connell to me then back again. “Actually, I had my heart set on a mature widow who could feed me her great cooking till I’m too fat to leave the house.”
/> Mrs. O’Connell fixed him with a harsh look that was nullified by the twinkle in her eyes. “A man who’s so stuffed he can’t move is of no use to any woman. And I suspect, Mr. Stewart, it’d take more than a few sweets to keep you in for an evening.”
Mark shrugged. “I’m not looking for a ‘nice respectable’ girl anyway.”
A sick feeling jabbed at my stomach as the meaning of his words sunk in. He wasn’t just as bad as the rest of them; he was worse. “You are not only incorrigible. You are disgusting,” I snapped. “I’ve obviously made a mistake. Goodbye.”
Mark grabbed a handful of my skirt as I turned towards the door. He stood and gestured to a small table in the back of the shop. “Look,” he said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. At least, not anything like what you seem to think I meant. Did you want to talk to me or were you just here for tea or a snack?”
I narrowed my eyes and looked at his hand on my skirts. He dropped his hand at once. I hesitated then followed him to the back of the shop.
He pulled out a chair for me and I sat, toying with my white gloves a long moment. This was a mistake. I knew I should just accept that and leave before I did something I regretted. But Mark’s expression wasn’t conniving or angry, just open to what I had to say. But did I want to say it?
Finally, like a soldier readying himself for battle, I took a deep breath. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Ask away.”
I swallowed in an effort to clear the dryness from my throat and debated again whether to continue.
“Mind reading is not one of my many talents,” he said. “You’ll have to ask the favor out loud, you know.”
I let out an exasperated huff despite the quickness of my pulse at the sight of his grin. “There is to be a fundraising reception for the hospital at the home of Lord Amberson. I should like for you to escort me.”
Mark barely contained an astonished laugh. “What?”
Gazing down, I toyed with the gloves again. “Must I have an elaborate reason?”
“Yes.”
I jerked my head up. “Surely the incentive of a free meal is enough for you.”
Mark shook his head, giving me his best innocent expression. “I’m not that shallow, Miss Trambley. It takes more than a pretty face and a free meal to win me over.”
I bristled and blushed at the same time. He was enjoying this.
“After all, if I am—what was it?—‘not only incorrigible but disgusting,’ then you must have a pretty good reason to ask me to this fancy reception. Or do you want to take me along to shock them?”
I stared at him. “Yes, that’s it exactly. I thought by inviting a barbaric American, I would be asked to leave early.”
Mark stood. “Sorry, I’m booked that night.”
“But I haven’t told you which…” I stopped when his meaning sunk in. He would make this more difficult than it needed to be simply because he could. I peered at the table and cleared my throat. “The truth is, it’s either you or someone my father wants to invite for the evening. Dr. Palmer is one of Father’s protégés. I suppose he’s meant to be a potential suitor for me.”
“So I’m the lesser of two evils?”
I breathed a quiet sigh. “I wouldn’t phrase it that way.”
“How would you phrase it, then?” Mark asked smugly, sitting back down and folding his arms across his chest.
Of all the nerve! If there was any other way. But there wasn’t. “Will you or will you not accompany me?”
Mark stared at me, lost in thought. “Okay. I’ll be your escort.”
“Well,” I let out a long breath. “There is one problem. It’s a white tie affair.” It was foolish of me to even put him in such an awkward position since he clearly didn’t have the proper clothes.
He looked at me questioningly. “You mean a formal party?”
“Formal yes. White tie…and tails.” I fidgeted with my gloves again. “I’m sorry.” I stood. “Asking you was a bad idea.”
It was Mark’s turn to bristle. “I can find something decent to wear if that’s what you’re worried about.” He rose as well. “You’d be surprised. I clean up pretty good. You just tell me where and when.”
I hesitated, hating the way he brought this uncertainty out in me. “You can leave from the house with us. It’s the day after tomorrow, eight o’clock.”
He nodded. “I’ll take the Underground Train to Baker Street.”
“Oh, but you might get all sooty if you do that. I’ll have Father send the coach for you. Shall we say seven o’clock?”
Mark shrugged. “Fine.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly and hurried out before he changed his mind.
***
Mark
The day of the big formal was here. I felt nervous about rubbing elbows with London society. I’d been tempted to back out, but a couple things stopped me. First, Gurov insisted it’d be good for business since his last article was likely to be mentioned by someone. My being there would be free advertising. Second, there was always the chance I might run into the real Ripper, assuming of course, the “medical man” theory was correct.
And finally, I’d promised her I would. That was the clincher. I might be one to break the rules, but I never broke a promise to a real friend and I’d promised Genie to keep her from being stuck with the guy her Father wanted to hook her up with.
I’d been on the receiving end of a couple of those kinds of dates. I didn’t wish that hell on anyone. Especially when I thought of the type of guy the Trambleys might try to push on Genie. Someone older, a lot older, who probably just wanted to get into her pants—or petticoats as it were.
Nope. Wasn’t going to go there.
I fingered the suit hanging on the back of the door. It was nice stuff, probably top of the line in its day. I wasn’t quite sure where Ian had gotten it, but his smug grin and my Aunt Imogen’s knowing smile hinted Genie Trambley probably had a hand in it.
I put the outfit on and was pleasantly surprised that it fit. Mostly. The length of coat and pants was fine, but both the silk vest and coat were a bit loose across the shoulders. Still, it was good enough for standing around and playing the escort.
I got dressed and grinned at my reflection in the mirror. “Well, old chap, you certainly cut a dashing figure, if I do say so.”
Part of me hoped Genie would think so, too.
***
The Trambley’s’ coach picked me up at seven then trotted through the clear summer night. I could almost believe I was on a sightseeing spin around the city as I sat back against the leather-covered cushions. Once clear of Whitechapel, the air took on a fresher scent. The city seemed so different than when I’d gone through it on that fog-shrouded morning headed for George Yard. Tonight it was almost familiar. I almost felt good about being here.
Of course, that mood ended quickly enough when I arrived at the Trambley’s’ and Sarah led me to the library where I was introduced to Phoebe’s escort for the evening, Captain Walters. A tall man with thinning gray hair and a bushy mustache and side-whiskers. Walters looked like a guy straight out of an old movie, and seemed ready to start barking orders.
He greeted me with, “So, you’re the young American radical who thinks the poor have the wits to rise out of the muck, are you?”
My answer, to channel Dad: “They can do more to help themselves when it comes to crime. You can’t expect the police to be everywhere.”
Walters channeled my mom’s cousin Jerry, the one who liked to bust my dad’s balls for being a cop. “To expect the police to be anything but zookeepers down there is asking a bit much.”
Dr. Trambley interrupted. “Captain Walters is just back from India.” He gave the word the British pronunciation of “In-jia.”
The Captain took that as a cue to recount his many exploits while among the “heathen tribes.” It took a crap-ton of willpower not to call him a liar and bigot to his face. But that wou
ld have gotten the evening off to an even worse start.
Dr. Trambley gave me a “keep quiet” look and refilled my glass while the Captain continued his monologue.
I was saved from a whole new ramble by the appearance of the women. Phoebe and Mrs. Trambley gave me a quick glance that said I was on the very fringe of being acceptable since they had no choice. Genie offered me a nervous smile before we wedged ourselves into the carriage.
I sat between Dr. Trambley and the Captain while the women sat facing us. Mrs. Trambley gave me another long once-over. In the dim coach interior, I couldn’t really make out what Genie had on under her thin silk cloak but the pale blue color was nice on her. Thinking back to some of the old photos and stuff my mom used for her research, I guess that whatever Genie’s dress looked like it probably exposed a lot more of her than I’d ever seen. My hormones responded to that thought. Down, boys.
“Thank you all for inviting me,” I said to get the forming mental images out of my head.
The doctor replied with a nod, Phoebe with a grumble, Mrs. Trambley with a purse of her lips, and Genie with a clipped, “You’re welcome, Mr. Stewart.”
Mrs. Trambley took the opportunity to turn to Genie and snap, “I do wish you’d leave your spectacles at home. You’ll scare off all the eligible prospects by looking so scholarly.”
“At least I’ll be able to recognize them as they run away, Mother.”
I tried not to laugh.
“Don’t you think eyeglasses make a woman unattractive, Captain Walters?” Mrs. Trambley asked, searching for allies.
He stroked his mustache “They certainly are off-putting.”
Oh, this was bull. “It would take more than a girl wearing glasses to make me want to turn in my man card.”
Genie did her best to hide her smile. Even Dr. Trambley shook with a quiet chuckle.
“Oh, really!” Mrs. Trambley huffed and turned to look out the side window. Phoebe glared.
