Elliot tilted his head just enough to check if the Knave was still following behind him. The man had stopped walking and was scowling after him, a solitary, hunched black silhouette against the miserable, wet shadows of the docks. Grinning to himself, Elliot turned down the volume on his phone, slipped in behind Louise and followed her without further incident to the tube station.
Elliot called Ramona on his way home, jubilant about his success and eager to share the good news. She answered before the first ring was done. “Elliot. How did it go?”
He found himself smiling into the mouthpiece. He’d missed the sound of her voice but he hadn’t realised just how much until now. “It went well. Louise is on the train home and the Knave lost his chance.”
“How did you stop him?”
“With a sprinkle of spice.” Oh you’re witty tonight, Elliot Cinder. He was inordinately pleased with himself, almost giddy with triumph over the evening’s achievement.
“What?”
He laughed to hear the confusion in her voice. “I surprised him with a burst of loud music, giving Louise enough time to escape. She has no idea of how close she came to death tonight.”
“Did the Knave see your face?”
“No. I made sure of that.”
“What are you doing now?” she asked suddenly and he was almost certain he heard a hesitant eagerness in her tone. “I’ve had a rough day and I could do with some company,” she babbled quickly, as if afraid to leave him enough time to say no. “Do you want to come over for a drink? You can tell me more about your evening.”
“I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” He made sure he was the first to hang up this time, swiftly tapping the End Call button as soon as he finished speaking. It didn’t hurt to remind her that she didn’t always hold the upper hand.
Ramona’s eyes seemed to sparkle as she opened the door in response to his knock, although he told himself it might have been a reflection of the ceiling light above the doorway. “That was quick.”
He winked at her, still buoyed up by the success of his evening’s work and mildly searching for some praise. “Stealth and speed are my trademarks.”
“Of course they are.” She didn’t offer any additional compliments or flattery and instead walked across to open the refrigerator. “Wine or beer?”
“Whatever you’re having.” He took off his coat and hung it over the back of a chair. The rain had finally stopped outside but the damp wool retained the sharp, musky odour of a sodden sheep. “Why was your day so awful?”
She shrugged as she handed him a glass of wine. “Meetings, interviews, all that kind of relentlessly monotonous stuff. You’re lucky that your job takes you out and into the action.”
“Perhaps, but I’ve always found the inner workings of business fascinating. I did have my own small business once. Are the corporation’s headquarters located in Central London?”
She smirked at him as she took a seat. “Nice try, but I’m not telling you anything about the corporation.”
“That’s ok. Amy told me plenty,” he said offhandedly, annoyed by Ramona’s brushoff.
She looked as if she was ready to jump up and start a full-scale war. “She should never have done that! Amy had her instructions and she knows when to keep her mouth shut. She’s breached the terms of her confidentiality agreement.”
“Wait, wait.” He hurried to make amends for his flippant comment, not wanting to get Amy needlessly into trouble. “She didn’t tell me anything. She said she wasn’t allowed to. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Ramona eyed him suspiciously before finally relenting. “I believe you. I know it would’ve been out of character for her to disclose confidential information. Did you enjoy your day with her?”
“I did. It was very enjoyable.” He sat back in his chair, allowing himself to relax now. Ramona’s apartment and company felt familiar and comforting and it was pleasant to be away from the bleakly solitary surrounds of his own apartment on this grey and damp night. “She’s very knowledgeable about the makeup of serial killers. We had an interesting conversation.”
“She was invited to join the corporation because of that knowledge and her input has been invaluable for this particular project.”
Elliot sipped at his wine, savouring the tang of the beverage and the warmth now seeping through his veins. He again attempted to gain a morsel of praise from Ramona, curiously anxious to hear that she was pleased with his work. “I’m glad to have been the man to put a damper on the Knave’s plans for the evening. That’s one less murder victim and there will be more for as long as I’m on the job.”
Ramona appeared to have missed his point and she was still speaking as if she was delivering a presentation at a board meeting. “You have to consider that he wasn’t always successful during his reign of terror. Not all the girls he meets will walk to the tube station on their own – they might be meeting friends or catching a cab home. From what we know, there were always the ones that got away, just as there have always been those who have managed to escape the clutches of killers since time immemorial. However, we’re playing with fire now because soon he’s going to get agitated. He won’t be happy at being thwarted by your well-timed interruptions. We’ll have to tread carefully as there’s always the chance that he’ll turn his attention to a new target, someone who he didn’t pay attention to in the old version of the future.”
“I’m sure the corporation has that under control,” he said lightly. He wished she’d relax a bit, drop her formal speech and act more like an unattached young lady enjoying the company of a man. She had pulled her hair into a high ponytail tonight, exposing the nape of her neck and giving her a sense of vulnerability that he hadn’t often seen. She wore a pair of long pants in a soft, grey fabric and a pale pink top that clung audaciously to her figure, the sort of outfit that would’ve had respectable women fainting in horror back in his day. She was utterly gorgeous yet she seemed blithely unware of her femininity, intent on talking business as usual.
“They can’t control everything, unfortunately, although they’ll do everything in their power to ensure nothing gets out of hand.” She stood up to get the wine bottle from where she’d left it on the bench, giving him a pleasing perspective on the luscious curve of her buttocks. “Do you need a top up?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ramona was drunk. Self-contained, efficient, and business-like Ramona was merrily, whole-heartedly, and irreversibly drunk. Under the effects of the alcohol, she had thrown off her aloofness as if removing a mantle, revealing an adorably softer and funnier side. She’d just finished ad-libbing the words to a Spice Girl song after he finally told her the title of the song that he’d played to distract the Knave. She laughingly took a bow and flung herself back down in her chair. “Your turn.”
“No. I’m no jester nor poet. I’m happy to leave the gaieties and revelries to you.”
“The way you speak is so quaint. You use words that aren’t heard so often these days. I like it.”
“They are common enough words.” The era decoder hummed loudly, bluntly advising him that they weren’t so common anymore.
“I have a secret.” Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glassy as she poured herself another wine. She lifted the bottle, the second one she’d opened since he arrived, and looked at him enquiringly. “Do you want more?”
“No. I don’t enjoy the after effects of too much wine. I’ve never been fond of a pounding head to begin the day with. I find wine to be a cruel and unforgiving taskmaster, more so than beer.”
“All the more for me,” she said happily, undeterred by thoughts of a hangover. She sat the bottle heavily down on the coffee table beside her chair and curled her legs up beneath her.
“What is this secret of yours?” he prompted.
She grinned widely, looking impossibly young and carefree and very unlike the Ramona he knew. “It was me.”
“When?”
“On the night that you lost the era deco
der.”
He couldn’t understand her meaning. “What do you mean, it was me?”
“I was the one who took your place.”
He frowned, still trying to make sense of her words. “You took my place? Where – at the art gallery?”
“Yessh.” She slurred the word while nodding her head vigorously. “I tucked my hair into a cap and wore a long coat to disguise myself as a man. There wasn’t time to find a replacement and it was imperat-t-t,” she stumbled over the word before again finding the rhythm of her speech, “It was imperative that someone protected Jayne Trainor otherwise all the careful planning would’ve been in vain.”
He skimmed his eyes over her figure. He’d thought her shoulders too broad when he first met her but now he could see that their width suited her body shape perfectly. “I can’t believe that anyone could be fooled into believing you were a man. What did the corporation think of you standing in for me?”
“They weren’t happy but I don’t care. They scolded me again today for it.” She rubbed at her eyes, the gesture childishly vulnerable for a woman usually so focused on presenting herself as a practical and logical adult. At this moment she looked scarcely older than Annie had been when she died, when in reality she was probably in her late twenties and closer to Elliot’s age. She sighed and dropped her hands down into her lap. “Why don’t you tell me a story?”
Elliot chuckled, caught out by the abrupt change of subject. “What kind of story?”
“About your life back in the 19th century. It fascinates me.”
“What do you want to know?”
She groaned, as if he’d asked her to do something complex and difficult. Her eyelids drooped drowsily and she laid her head back against the headrest. “I don’t know. Just start somewhere. You told me your grandmother was a flower maker. What did your parents do? Was your father a chimney sweep like you?”
He remembered what Amy had said about his file. “I’m sure you’ve read all there is to know about me in my personnel file. I find it strange that you’ve never mentioned that such a thing exists. In fact, I seem to remember you asking me about my life not long after we met. At the time, you cleverly pretended you knew very little.”
Her eyes sprung open and a flicker of guilt flitted across her face. “Yes, I’ve seen the file but it’s different when you tell me in your own words. The corporation deals in facts rather than the human condition.” She managed to get her words out without stumbling over them this time and she ended her speech with a charming smile. “Please, tell me a story.”
That smile was impossible to deny. What man alive could ignore such a pretty request? “If you really want to know, my mother was a skilful seamstress and her talents were in demand. She worked arduous hours and often toiled long after dark, working by the light of a candle to complete her chores. At the time of their deaths, she was teaching my sisters how to make simple stitches on cloth in the hopes that as they grew older they could take over some of her workload.” He could picture the homely family scene now, those cosy evenings before his entire family was gone in the blink of an eye. Little Julia, always more impatient than her sister Charlotte, often became frustrated and disillusioned with her needlework. She would stomp her foot and fold her arms across her chest, her expression sullen as her mother scolded her and told her to behave herself. He suspected his forthright little sister would’ve done well for herself in a role such as the one Ramona held now, where she was able to tell others what they should do. If she had lived long enough to marry, her husband would have needed to keep a firm hand on the marital reins to avoid her driving him to distraction.
“I’ve always been hopeless at handcrafts. I’m all thumbs.” Ramona held up her hands in front of her and gazed blearily at them.
“In that case, you would have made a wonderful brick maker.”
“Why? What do thumbs have to do with making bricks?”
“My father was brick maker. Strong thumbs were essential to press the red clay out of the mould before drying the brick and kiln baking it. All of London town used to sit glumly beneath the stench of the smoke from the kiln fires. Some would say that London was built on a pile of red clay and the sweat of honest toil. Brickmaking was hard work and I doubt anyone would argue against that. My father carefully wrapped his hands in rags soaked in a tincture of clary sage each night in the hopes of preventing chilblains and rheumatism. His hands were his best tools and he made sure to look after them.”
“And here I am complaining about my job.” Her eyelids had drooped again and she looked ready for her bed. The glass of wine that she’d poured for herself earlier sat untouched beside her, which Elliot thought was probably not a bad thing. “Tell me some more.”
He pulled thoughtfully at his beard, his mind now firmly in the past, back in a time much simpler than this. “Father would read to us at night from one of his books, spinning tales of sailors at sea and brave adventurers exploring far off lands. Those stories enthralled and excited me. I wanted to see the world outside the borders of my own narrow life.”
“I know that much. Your sense of adventure was a definite advantage when we first considered you for this job. Keep talking,” she said sleepily. “I like listening to your voice.”
“I’m trying to think of what else I can tell you. My grandmother had a mattress that she was very proud of. She refused to share it with anyone, sometimes not even my grandfather and especially not if he’d dallied too long at the tavern. She collected every piece and scrap of wool, fabric, or paper she could find and she stuffed it inside, until that mattress was firm and comfortable. It wasn’t a patch on the modern day beds but for the times, it was good enough for an empress to lie her head upon. Or at least that’s what my grandmother used to say.”
Ramona yawned widely.
“I should go,” he said, expecting an argument but receiving none. “You need to get some sleep.” He got up to walk to the door as she unfolded herself from her chair to follow him on unsteady legs. He turned to face her and saw that she was standing very close, close enough for him to smell the sweetly seductive scent of her perfume and to notice unexpected flecks of gold in the deep blue of her eyes. It really was time for him to go. If he stood here much longer, he might think to do something foolish that would only complicate matters for them both. His mind had no business in wandering in the direction it was going. “Goodnight, Ramona.”
“Night.” She slurred the word and grabbed for the door handle to steady herself. “We’ll talk soon.”
He grinned down at her and then abruptly turned away, batting to keep himself in check. Ramona was a very attractive young woman but she was also his employer, as unnatural as that was. Altogether, it made life difficult for a man who had never known a society such as this, regardless of whether he had the benefit of an era decoder or not.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ramona’s email was brief and curt to the point of being snappish, briskly outlining tonight’s assignment in as few sentences as possible. She made no mention of last evening and Elliot had the distinct impression from reading behind the few lines of the message that she would not mention it again. He guessed she was probably feeling embarrassed this morning, now that the fog of inebriation had cleared. He’d been there enough times himself to know that destination well enough.
He returned his attention to the details of the assignment. The Knave was due to meet Kacey Greene tonight at the same wine bar where Amy had met Shaun, the venue where Elliot worked his first assignment. Elliot knew from his prior visit that the maze of alleys and laneways surrounding the bar would give the Knave ample opportunities to attack a lone woman.
There was a photo of Kacey attached to the brief outline. The young woman had strawberry-blonde, feathery hair, a toothy and engaging grin, and bright, inquisitive eyes behind the lenses of her round, wire-framed glasses. Something about the eagerness of her grin hinted that she might be the type of woman who enjoyed jumping feet first into a new adventu
re and Elliot was irked beyond reason to think of the Knave targeting her as his next victim. What right did anyone have to cut another’s life short?
He went for a walk after reading his email, needing to get outside in the fresh air to clear his head of angry thoughts of the Knave and to separate himself from the four walls of the apartment. He had never spent too much time indoors during his years in Victorian London, preferring to be out and on the move rather than sitting in a dank, cramped room. His apartment here was obviously nothing like his own tenement room but his itchy feet remained to remind him that he wasn’t a man who liked to tie himself down to one spot. It seemed a man could vastly change his environment and his circumstances but his true nature was more of a challenge to tame.
He arrived at the wine bar before both Kacey and the Knave. He ordered an orange juice and chose a table near the back of the room so he wouldn’t be noticed. He was sure the Knave hadn’t seen his face the other evening but it didn’t pay to be too sure when dealing with such a man. From what he knew of him, the Knave was cunning and shrewd, a dockside rat of a man, one used to turning situations to his own advantage for his own selfish means.
When the Knave walked in the door, Elliot almost didn’t recognise him. He wore a casual hooded sweatshirt and jeans, and a baseball cap tipped low at the front. He’d also somehow managed to add a realistic and very permanent looking moustache to his defining features. It wasn’t until he stood at the bar to order a drink that Elliot noticed that he was nervously twisting a silver ring around his little finger. In addition, and Elliot knew he should’ve noticed this as soon as the man walked in, his arrogance radiated off him in easily detectable waves.
Kacey was late, arriving giggly and breathless, full of apologies about a missed train as she greeted her date. She was a tiny girl, smaller than Elliot had presumed from her photo, with a bounce in her step and a jiggle in her walk. It alarmed Elliot to think of how easily the bigger, stronger Knave could overpower and assault her. The Knave briefly laid his hand on the small of Kacey’s back as he bent to speak to her and Elliot had to force himself not to leap up and knock it away.
Lay Down Your Hand Page 13
