Touchstone (Meridian Series) (2 page)

The thrill of time travel was on
him again. Around every corner would be a new historical landmark. He could not
begin to take it all in. He wondered who might have been beheaded on this very
spot, 900 years ago. If only it weren’t so murky. At that moment, bells began
to peal in the far distance. What time was it? They were immediately picked up
by a closer set and, one by one, half a dozen, seven, eight, peals overlaid one
another. The gentle tolling hung in the air, almost vibrating the fog molecules,
making the entire city hum.

“Oranges and lemons, sing the
bells of St. Clemens,

“When will you pay me, sing the
bells of Old Bailey,

“When I am rich, sing the bells
of Fleetditch,

“When will that be, ring the
bells of Stepney,

“When I am old, ring the Great
Bells at Paul’s”

The nursery rhyme came to him,
unbidden, from forty years in his past. And indeed, nearby
St.
Paul’s tolled long and deep,
and hung in the air rolling longer than any of the others. He turned toward its
sound, but could see nothing in the fog. He counted out four long tolls.

What time was it, indeed? What
year was it? This was not the undifferentiated Olden Days, this was a specific
moment of time. The Arch had sifted and juggled every quantum particle of the
universe to produce this moment—just for him. Now he was in a Deep Nexus, and
Time waited, holding her final judgment in abeyance as she watched his every
move, like Maeve on his shoulder, her constant whisper in his ear. He would
have to be very careful. He couldn’t do anything to inadvertently change
things. He would just have a brief look around, steal over to the museum, and
then get home. He had studied the maps and social history books (all at home,
never at the labs!) But he needed to get oriented. This was quite different from
the desert adventure. Here there was a real possibility that he would have to
interact with the locals, have conversations, and pass in society. He and the
Bedouin might have been space aliens to each other as far as their social
intercourse. Here, he must pass; he must fit in and flow along the streets like
the genteel soul he made himself to be in his carefully chosen clothing.

Oh, Maeve, perhaps you were
right…

2

He decided
to head out to
Baker Street
, which was a thoroughfare, and sounded as if it had more traffic
on it. It was
six
o’clock
, and very
dark in these northern latitudes by this hour, but the night was still young.

He stood, for a while, at the
corner, watching the passersby. This appeared to be a substantial middleclass
neighborhood. The street was lined with shop fronts, supporting three brick
stories of apartments above them. There were street lights on the corners and,
in the middle of each block, a line of fading glows in either direction. The
fog was lighter here. People strolled along the street, alone or in couples,
mostly in silence, but he caught occasional lines of conversation.

“Evening, Miss Hynes.”

“Evening, Mr. Simms.” The
gracious nod as one passed another in the street, and occasionally a casual,
courteous remark or two. “You’re looking well tonight. Lovely rose in your
cheeks, m’lady. Must be that fine fare you set on table. Such a roast! Enough
to feed a brace of yard workers, I’ll warrant.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Simms.”

Nordhausen smiled, wondering
whether Mr. Simms was angling for the lady’s affections or a good meal. Still,
the simple humanity of these people was immediately impressed upon him. They
were not ‘historical figures,’ subjects for his intellectual digestion and
study. They were real flesh and blood now, with quirks and foibles and all too
familiar gestures as they spoke to one another in that brief passing. He rubbed
his palms together, experiencing a moment of excitement. He was here at last,
and this was going to be far more interesting that he could possibly imagine.

 He was beside the shop window
of Wm. Hycross, Shirtmaker, displaying his wares on fashionable stuffed torsos.
Across
Baker Street
was Curtis and Co., Chemists.
Each appeared to be open for business, although neither appeared to have any
traffic at the moment. Nordhausen wondered what Mr. Hycross would think about
his style. In his preparations, he had shopped eBay for period clothing, and
accessorized at the
San
Francisco
antique
shops. Dressed as he was, he suddenly felt naked. He hoped he would not appear
too
au bas du style
. What if Mr. Hycross should see a fashion idea that
was not to appear for another 10 years! He was certain that his beautiful
woolen overcoat with fur collar and lapels was no earlier than 1906.  What year
was it? He decided to go across the street to the Chemists.

The shop took up the corner of
Baker and
Crawford
Street
, and he
smiled at the surprise when he realized that Paddington had been renamed here.
The establishment had large windows on the intersection, displaying a variety
of compounds in attractive jars, bottles, boxes, envelopes. The labels held
drawings of happy children, attractive young people, hale and hearty elders,
with names like
Professor M’omber’s Vegetable Hair Grower, Hemsley’s Worm
Destroying Spirit, Dr. J. Hedge’s Fever and Ague Annihilator, Heimbold’s
Compound Fluid Extract Buchu
(for diseases of the bladder and kidney,
obstruction of the urine, chronic gonorrhea and gleets);
Taylor’s Celebrated
Electric Oil.

Nordhausen’s excitement and
curiosity got the better of him. He simply had to go in and have a brief look,
so he pushed the heavy door in. It set a bell on a wire to tinkling. He shut
the door, and made his way through aisles of display cabinets to the counter in
the back of the store. The sudden warmth on his face was comforting, and he
caught the distinctive odor of good tobacco in the air. The only light came
from a desk lamp, from which the no doubt Mr. Curtis sprang up sprightly to
serve him.

“Well, sir, let me see, let me
see, what can I prescribe for you today?”

“No,  I am…”

“No sir, now don’t tell me. You
have come to consult Henry Curtis, the principal prescribing chemist in this
part of
London
, pray allow me to serve you. I
see that you are not from these parts, sir?” He peered intently at Nordhausen.

“Yes, I…”

“No, no, sir,  let me diagnose.”

Mr. Curtis pursed his lips and
looked Nordhausen up and down. He cocked an eyebrow.

“I observe, sir, that although
you exhibit signs of radiant good health, you suffer from an insidious internal
weakness in your kidneys. Tell me, do you complain of,” he looked about as if a
lurker might be eavesdropping, “sporadic urination?”

Nordhausen was taken aback.
“Sporadic?”

“Yes, I was certain of it! As
well, I observe your color is high. This is a sure sign of an unnatural
effusion of blood in the peripheral system. I shall prescribe an anti-apoplectine
and a specific for your kidney congestion, perhaps Grover’s Tasteless Elixir.”

He made a few notes on a small
pad, then looked back up.

“Where might you be from, sir?
Let me see. I observe your clothing was not made by a
London
tailor, so I take it that you
have come recently from foreign shores. Am I not correct, sir?”

“Yes, only just now.”

“You are plainly an American
gentleman, your accent is discernible.”

“Yes, I am newly arrived from
San Francisco
.”

“From
San Francisco
, indeed! That is a long
journey, to be sure. Allow me to recommend Miss Plimsy’s Restorative. Although
made for the ladies, between you and me, sir, it has powers for the masculine
sex. And I believe it is an American product, containing an invigorating
mixture of cocaine tempered with a dash of morphine. Believe me, your first
evening in
London
will be a pleasure!”

“Thank you, no!” Nordhausen
burst in. “No doubt you are dead on in your diagnosis, however, I… I… rely on
my own physician for treatment of those very ills! Your acuity is remarkable.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” Mr.
Curtis lowered his voice, “I may say certain crowned heads have graced this
shop floor for relief, and gone away satisfied.” He resumed a normal speaking
tone. “However, allow me to press on you this bottle of Miss Plimsy’s
Restorative, a gift, as it were, of friendship across the waters.”

Nordhausen accepted the gift in
the spirit with which it was offered, and shuddered to wonder what other
ingredients the bottle might contain.

“So, sir, if you have not come
to shop, how else can I serve you?”

“Well, Mr. Curtis, as you have
discovered, I am here from
America
, and I find myself lost in your metropolis, unable to find my
station, my hotel or my bags.”

“How did that happen, sir?” Mr.
Curtis was concerned.

Nordhausen’s mind flew,
beginning to weave tangled webs.

“I had loaded my trunks on a cab
at South Kensington Station. When I turned away for a moment, the cab took off
with all my baggage. I tried to chase it through the streets, got lost, and now
I am here.”

“My dear sir, we must report
this to the police, at once!”

“No!” Nordhausen shouted. “I
mean, no. I don’t desire to call the police at this time.”

“But, sir, all your effects!”

“No,” Nordhausen said, firmly,
“No, sir, I prefer not to. Please respect my wishes in this.”

Mr. Curtis was taken aback, but
when presented to him like that, he had no choice. “Very well, sir, but what
shall you do?”

“Perhaps you can direct me to a
hotel in the neighborhood, where I can spend the night, and determine what to
do in the morning?”

Mr. Curtis considered. “I think Halliday’s
Private Hotel would serve you well, in Little George Street, which is quite
nearby. You will be certain to find good accommodations there, and my cousin is
the manager.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Curtis.”

“Not at all, sir, it is a duty
and pleasure to assist tourists to our fair city. I strongly recommend you
reconsider your decision not to inform the police. This is not only an extreme
inconvenience to you, but a stain on
London
,
and its corps of honest, hardworking cabbies. No doubt you were recognized as a
foreigner by that robber, just as easily as I recognized it!

“Come, let me direct you, and,
if I may say, please consider returning for my own patented rapid hair restorer
and scalp calmative, made principally of lead paste with a soupcon of arsenic.
Don’t take it orally, of course.”

Nordhausen believed he was
supposed to laugh, so he did. Mr. Curtis smiled as his non-failing punch line
worked again.

Mr. Curtis directed him down
several blocks, and in short order, with the golden currency of Mr. Curtis’
referral, Nordhausen was installed in a third floor room, with bow windows
overlooking Little George Street. The check-in was remarkable. No one asked him
for money, much less a credit card. Only the most general information was
needed for the register, and his word was unquestioned. In fifteen minutes he
was lying on his back on the rather firm bed, catching his breath, and
reviewing everything that had happened.

It hadn’t taken a clothier to
view his ensemble with suspicion, and his clever explanation had almost landed
him in the police station. Yet, his chance encounter with Mr. Curtis had gotten
him lodging for the night he needed. He might even venture out for the evening.

In fact, he
ought to venture out for the evening! He had only 48 hours, of which he had
already spent one. Forty seven to go. He should go where no one would ask him
questions. He should visit a low dive; some place where he could be quietly
inconspicuous and just take in the wonderful atmosphere, no matter how sordid
it might be.

A cabby should be able to direct
him. He had plenty of money. He had brought fifty pounds in notes, and twenty pounds
in coin, all from 1869 through 1882. What year was it? That alone would tell
him what kind of holiday he could have.

And again he thought of the
bottle of Miss Plimsy’s Restorative in his pocket. Only forty eight hours in
Victorian London. A little cocaine? Stay up for two days? If not now, when? If
not here, where? A little cocaine wasn’t going to hurt him. It restored the
ladies, no?

He looked at the label, which
told him nothing. It was an attractive silver paper, printed with robin’s egg
blue ink. An illustration of a fine figured young lady holding a parasol, ample
bosom, generous bustle, with a winsome smile. Miss Plimsy’s Restorative, for
Ladies. A Rejuvenating Elixir and Calmative. (For Peculiarly Feminine
Complaints.) He unscrewed the tin cap, and looked at the honey brown fluid. He
dipped his finger in the cap, and touched it to his tongue. An intense ginger
syrup masked the taste of the drugs. It certainly appeared to be cocaine: his
tongue was quickly getting numb!