Time Rip (3 page)

It would help, of course, if the smoke hadn't grown so thick, if I had a clearer view and a clearer head, if my air passages weren't clogged with soot.
Gasp.
I can barely breathe, barely see, and I've lost my bearings. Which way is out? Where the hell is the door?

Slam-wham-bam--

Crash!

Ah, that way.

How do I know? Because someone just busted it in from the street side. Either that or a wall collapsed, but it sounded more like the door.

"For the love of God, sir, stand back!" a loud masculine voice pleads. "The Fire Brigade's been summoned. Let them handle this."

"No time, cabbie," a second voice answers, equally loud and even more manly. "If Mr. Lawrence is inside as his father suspects, he must be found and brought out
now.
Stand back yourself if you're afraid. I'll let the Brigade deal with the flames; that's their job. I'm a doctor. Saving lives is mine."

"I thought you said you were a writer. In fact, I know you are. I read your story in
Beeton's Christmas Annual
last year. Rippin' good yarn it was."

"I'm very flattered, I'm sure," the doctor drawls, sounding anything but. "Now are you coming with me, man, or shall I go it alone? There's not a moment more to lose!"

"Oh, I'll come all right. Never let it be said Egbert Popkins is a coward. But if I burn to death, me old missus will kill me. She hates it when I ain't home on time."

Egbert?
There's a person called Egbert?

Hacking and coughing, head reeling, my hexed honey in tow, I stagger toward the voices, an audio beacon to guide me out... I wonder what the doctor's name is. A doctor who's a writer, huh? And
Beeton's.
..

Nah, it can't be. That would be way too much of a coincidence. Besides, I'm pretty sure we're in London, and if this is 1888, he's living in Portsmouth right now--and wherever we are, it's not there, or Marris wouldn't have said "the sea
at
Portsmouth" when he and Timothy were reminiscing. If we were
in
Portsmouth, he'd have said "the sea here" or--

"Doctor, look, a lady and a gent!"

Then again, there's nothing to stop a Portsmouth resident from traveling to London, is there? A business trip, maybe? Visiting friends?

"Quick, outside with them, Popkins!"

"Double quick, sir. I'll take the gent."

Which leaves me--no damsel, but definitely in distress--to the gallant care of a dark-haired, dynamic young man who looks very like his early photos. I recognize the hefty build and wholesome face, the sharp eyes and thick mustache. An author, for sure, whose first significant work,
A Study In Scarlet
, was published 1887 in
Beeton's Christmas Annual.
Egbert was right, too. It is a rippin' good yarn.

I've read almost everything he's written--or, rather, will write--and a lot of what's been written about him. The young doctor isn't a knight yet, but he will be one day, and he acts like one now, sweeping me up in strong arms and carrying me out of hellfire to a gas lamp lit street where a horse drawn hansom cab waits.

Well, I'll be damned.

I've just been rescued by Arthur Conan Doyle.

He sets me on my feet by the open door of the cab and wipes a white handkerchief over his face, flushed from the heat of the flames and exertion. "Are you all right, madam? Is anyone else trapped inside? I came here on behalf of a friend, Admiral Lawrence, looking for Mr. Timothy L--"

"The gent's all right, just a bit singed around the edges," Egbert interrupts. The brawny redhead climbs down from the vehicle. "He was out cold, but roused up when I loaded him onto the seat. Says the admiral's son left for home before the fire started, and he doesn't think there's anyone else in the house. Leastwise, no one alive. To hear him tell it, the Brigade may find a couple of charred corpses. A murder victim and the man who shot him. I'd best notify the Yard."

"Not yet, you won't!" Disheveled and sooty, a head pokes out of the cab. "Detective Lestrade would bungle the investigation--as usual. I'll solve it myself. It's
my
mystery, blast it. I found it, I'm keeping it."

Egbert arches his brows. "Balmy from the smoke, are we?" He casts a sideways glance at Arthur. "It sounds like he's read your story, too, sir."

From the corner of my eye, I notice the Fire Brigade wagon at the end of the street, heading our way, and make a fast, if fuzzy, decision.

"No. He
is
your story," I say.

Was that me or the opium talking? Am I still a tad tipsy?

Yes. In case anyone was wondering.

On the other hand, our star sleuth was about to spill the beans anyway. He's bewitched, but not the least bit bothered or bewildered by it. I could try to lie our way out of this muddle, but any explanations I fabricate, he'll be sure to contradict. The truth may not be the easy path, but it's the straightest.

It may even work.

I smooth the front of my frock and paste a smile on my face. "Dr. Conan Doyle, meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He used to be Hunter Steele, but we had some pixie problems tonight. He's been transformed by a wickedly whimsical spell."

"Pixies?
You're
the one balmy from the smoke." Holmes frowns at me and nods to Arthur. "This, sir, is my good friend Dr. John Watson. Don't mind the babbling--or the dress, for that matter. He's in disguise to help me catch a killer. A foul fiend who preys on the women of Whitechapel."

The cab horse snorts.

"My feelings exactly," Egbert mutters.

He and Arthur exchange looks, the latter stony-faced silent.

I resist the urge to vomit in the gutter.

Suddenly I realize why this date gave me chills. In a gruesome rush, I remember all sorts of vintage crime trivia. For instance, it was the morning of November 9th, 1888 that a girl identified as Mary Kelly was found in pieces in her room. Historians are divided on that identification; some speculate it wasn't her. But right now, I think it was.

"You've seen Mary?"
Timothy had asked.

"Miss Kelly is probably en route to the Continent by now,"
Marris had said.

And from Burke...
"You wanted it to look like a Jack-smart butcher job, didn't you?"

"Let me guess," I say, staring into gray eyes, "that paper Marris read, and you risked your life to read by
firelight.
.. It was a news story about the latest--and bloodiest--Jack the Ripper murder."

"Along with some choice comments about the case in general."

"Except we know the new murder wasn't Jack's work."

"All the more reason to find him, since the police seem flummoxed."

"And his copycat is kaput, so there's no sport for you there. I hope you're happy now. You wanted a big case. You got one."

The gray eyes narrow to cool, calculating slits. "Your powers of deduction are improving. Excellent, Watson. What else do you think
we
know?"

"You're both balmy! That's what
I
know," Egbert answers. "Inside with you, miss... er, sir... whatever you are." Half lifting, half pushing, he hustles me into the cab.

Fine. I wanted us out of here anyway before the street fills with firemen.

"It'll be a tight fit, but you'd best try riding with me, sir, in case they turn violent," he tells the doctor. "Where to, do you think? Hospital, or the police?"

I glance out the window to see Arthur peering in, his face aglow in the lamplight, his eyes as calculating as Holmes's.

"Neither," he says, and squeezes in with us instead. "Take them back to the admiral's house with me."

"But... " Egbert opens his mouth to protest.

Arthur stops him with a raised hand. "In the first place, they appear to know who I am, though I never introduced myself. Secondly, when we found them, they were ringed by fire. The skirts of that...
ahem.
.. disguise might well have caught, yet didn't. A rather curious fabric, wouldn't you say?"

Only in this era. Besides being flame-retardant, it's a fiber blend that hasn't been invented yet. I'm impressed he noticed.

"And third"--the hint of a grin twitches his lips--"you may think me mad, Popkins, but I happen to believe in fairies."

Which I knew, of course, and had bargained on when I told him the pixie part. No shit. Someday he'll write a book on the subject,
The Coming of the Fairies.
He was--is--a man of honor, intellect, and vast imagination.

"Granted, this pair may be even madder," he concedes. "But one of them also looks remarkably like I've pictured him in my mind. And honestly"--the grin broadens--"what author could resist the chance to talk to his protagonist in the flesh?"

"It's a pity then the other one falls so short of the mark." The cabbie glowers at me through the window.

I flutter my lashes at him. "Don't let the ruffles fool you, Egbert. Underneath I've got everything Watson had."

"That's what worries me." He turns to climb onto the driver's seat.

"Wait," Holmes halts him, "when you were in the navy, you served under Admiral Lawrence, correct?"

"Aye, that's why whenever he's in town, up here from Portsmouth, he always uses my cab. Never wants no one else to drive him or his."

"Then you know his sons, too. What's Geoffrey like?"

"The speechmaker? Sober young gent, ramrod stiff. Headed for knighthood, I'll warrant, and a grand career in politics. He's ambitious, that one. A bit broody, but sure of himself. Determined. Sets his course, sticks to it, and sails over anything that gets in his way--" he breaks off, frowning. "Here now, how did you even know I was in the navy?"

"The same way I know you were born in Cornwall, but raised in London, your father was a shoemaker, and you had kippers for breakfast this morning."

Egbert blinks. "Crimey, if you ain't Sherlock Holmes, you're a ruddy mind-reader."

How about both?

I still think he read my mind earlier tonight. Hunter often did, rarely met a brain he couldn't probe. It's a handy skill to have in the secret agent business--and just as useful in detective work. But I don't think Holmes realizes he's using it. The spell blinds him to anything that's not one of his classic traits. He's locked into his current caricature. Sher-locked. Reading minds, but doing it on a subconscious level, then chalking up the data to his famous deductive reasoning.

Not that it makes much difference one way or the other. The end result is the same. Egbert shuts up. Good. Mounts his perch on the back of the cab. Better. And drives us away a few seconds after the firemen clatter to a stop and bound off their wagon, but before they have a chance to ask us any inconvenient questions.

Thank you.

Oh, and Arthur, who I thought would be full of questions, asks only one.

"Were you serious about hunting the Ripper?"

Holmes shrugs. "Why not? It seems I've nothing better to do."

"Very well then." Arthur opens the little trapdoor above and behind us. "Popkins, we won't return to the admiral's just yet. We're going to Whitechapel first." He looks at Holmes, their faces masked in shadow. "I presume you agree with me that the best place to start any investigation is the crime area itself, then work outward from there."

"An area that's already been scoured by two police forces," Egbert grumbles to himself. Or maybe he's grousing to the horse. "I'd like to know what he thinks we can do when scores of men have been searching since August, and come up empty-handed."

"Ah, but we have
Sherlock Holmes
on our team. Or someone who acts like him, at least." Arthur chuckles slightly. "Either way, he may be the one man in all London who can find Jack the Ripper."

"Mmm, yes," Holmes murmurs, pensive, barely listening, I sense. "Mind you, I already suspect who he is... and what he's about... not what you might think, by the way. Motive is the key to most murders, and there are only several to choose from. Avarice, revenge, passion--"

"What about insanity?" Arthur suggests.

"No doubt that one strikes too close to home for him," a gruff mutter filters down from the driver's perch.

Who asked you, Egbert?

"Madness, in terms of a highly charged mental or emotional state, falls under the Passion category. Unless the madman is an attention seeker, in which case it would fall under Avarice; he's greedy for fame... or infamy," Holmes explains, unruffled. "To motive, however, must be added other factors, such as opportunity and the murderer's core character. How clever is he, how confident, how daring?"

"But if you don't know
who
the blighter is, how can you tell any of that?" Egbert argues.

"By his
modus operandi
, of course."

"His what?"

"How he does things, Egbert," I translate.

"Hush, Popkins," Arthur tells him. "This is good stuff. A pity we've so little light in here. I'd love to take notes for future use."

I'd be happy to loan him the penlight key chain tucked inside my bodice, but I don't want to instigate a whole new discussion on time-travel and future technology.

"By interpreting the murderer's methods, we can deduce his character traits, which leads us to his identity," Holmes elaborates. "It narrows the search instantly. Ascertaining his
type
makes it far easier to discover his name. Detective work, in general, is a blend of observation and analysis. It all boils down to using what you do know to determine what you don't."

"Bravo." Arthur slaps his knee for emphasis. He sounds vastly entertained.

"Elementary." Holmes stifles a yawn behind his hand. "Thus, I've been mulling over the
known
facts of this case--piecing them together this way and that, to see how best they fit. For this investigation, that is the proper place to start, not the crime area."

Meaning he's been subconsciously picking brains, I'm pretty sure, harvesting the contemporary accounts of the Ripper case from Arthur and Egbert, and the historical overview from me. Include the news article he scanned, and he has many pieces to play with. The problem is there are
too
many, and none of them add up to anything conclusive. Jack the Ripper is one of history's great unsolved mysteries. I doubt even Sherlock Holmes can crack it.