Shadows Fall Away (7 page)

I glanced back to the dead woman. She was smaller than my mom, maybe five feet two to five four. Heavier build. Probably fortyish like Mom though. Her clothes looked old and worn, black jacket and little hat tied beneath her chin, dark green skirt with a brownish underskirt or slip whatever. Her outer skirt was lifted high, her legs apart, hands clenched at her sides. She’d been stabbed multiple times. Something was odd though. But what? My attention shifted to her clenched fists and the position of her arms.

I turned to Ian. “She was in pain, but not struggling. And she was already on her back when she died.”

“Is that so?”

“I think so.” Well, actually Fisher on
Forensic One
thought so in a scene sort of like this
.
I crouched down and reached out. I did not need to do this, certainly not without latex gloves. But yeah, I had to know if my guess was right. I turned her head. There was a small mat of bloody hair at the back.

“All those stab wounds are the likely causes of death, but I bet she was pulled down from the back and hit her head enough to be out of it but maybe not unconscious. If she could feel herself being stabbed, that would account her clenched fists, but she couldn’t fight back in that condition.”

I stood and stared at Ian, waiting for his thoughts on the matter. Dad really liked
Forensic One
and said they had their shit together for the most part.

Ian stared vacantly into space, stroking his mustache. “Interesting,” he said. “Motive?”

I shrugged. “There are a lot of stab wounds. If you ask me, this person had mad issues—is probably insane.”

Ian closed his eyes and swore softly. “Puckeridge,”

“So nobody saw or heard anything?” I asked.

“Not a bloody one.”

No surprise to me. This wasn’t all that different than what Dad and Uncle Rich dealt with. “It’s not likely anyone will talk in public even if they did see something.”

“Quite,” Ian said. “I suppose people are similar the world over in situations like these.”

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” I agreed. Crap. Now I was channeling Aunt Agatha. She should have been the one stuck here. She’d love it.

I scanned the onlookers. Just like with that drug shooting back home, these people weren’t going to say a word. This was the type of place where you learned to keep your mouth shut and cover your ass. Even the honest working people were like that. They didn’t trust cops and preferred to take care of things their own way.

I followed Ian when he moved aside to let the body be taken away. “If you want, I can hang around and see if I can find anything out.”

Ian’s eyes narrowed a moment. “I doubt you’ll have much success, young man,” he said, emphasizing
young
.

“You never know—”

“This is
police
business.” Ian stiffened. “I’ll be occupied for some time with this. I’m sure you can find your way to the station to wait for me. Just through the archway there, right on the High Street, across left.”

Dude was harsh, but I wasn’t really surprised. “If I see a bakery, you want me to bring you some donuts?” Ian’s blank stare made me smile, I slid my hands into my pockets and walked away.

My sense of smell was working overtime as I walked down Wentworth Street and I wished it wasn’t. The stench of sulfur from coal fires thickened the fog, making it cling to my skin. Next came the smells of horses, their crap, human waste, and rotting garbage.

Sharper were the scents from the shops and stalls I passed—mildew from musty cellars, of tanned leather, varnish, fresh-cut lumber, and even a hint of flowers to relieve the worst of it. They combined into a weird cloud that threatened to choke me.

Despite the unsettling smells, my stomach growled. I had the change left from the money Ian had given me for the carriage ride, but where could I get something to eat around here this early? It was still dark. Man, I wished I had my cell phone to know the exact time. I should have grabbed that old pocket watch Agatha had given me to wear with my costume for the party. Oh well, yet one more bad choice to add to my endless list.

I paused and watched a couple women who sat by the side of the road, selling small loaves of bread from ratty sacks. The guy who bought some looked thin, emaciated, as if the poor loaf of bread was his whole meal till dinnertime. I figured he must be coming from a night shift somewhere or heading to an early shift on too little sleep. My dad looked that way sometimes. He moved the way these guys moved, in an odd trudging yet hurried way as if routine and the dislike of getting grief from a boss were the only things keeping them going.

A few other guys came and went from a pub across the way, some finishing off sandwiches or what looked like small sausages. My stomach rumbled again and I wondered if they had laws about minors in bars around here. I was almost eighteen and that was legal in the modern London. I doubted anyone would card me.

No one gave me a second glance when I walked in, so I settled myself near a window. My eyes darted around. It seemed sort of familiar and I recognized it as a place on the tour Agatha had dragged me on. I hadn’t been paying much attention to the tour guide then, just the barmaid. A fact about which Agatha had repeatedly bitched.

This Princess Alice didn’t have any of the “quaint” atmosphere of its modern counterpart and it certainly didn’t have the hot barmaids. It was more like my mom had described it:
a workingman’s pub, furnished with worn wooden tables and sturdy chairs. A few booths had upholstered benches and there were carved wood partitions and fairly clean brass rails to lend it an air of respectability.

Whatever. It wasn’t a total dive, but I doubted it was on the A-list of places to visit, even in 1888 London.

I jumped at the abrupt appearance of a pudgy gray-haired woman.

“And you?” she demanded.

I considered asking for a menu and for her to wipe down the table while I decided, then thought better of it.

“Breakfast?” I hoped she’d give me a clue as to what they had.

To my surprise, she merely nodded and walked off.

I scratched the hint of stubble on my neck and hoped she came back with something decent. I doubted ordering Cocoa Pebbles and fresh fruit was going to be an option.

There were a half-dozen other guys in the pub, even one who seemed near my age, all dressed casually like I was. They still hadn’t given me a second look and I realized that the single word I’d spoken probably hadn’t been enough to mark me as an American.

A plan formed in the back of my mind and I concentrated on the conversations of the others nearest me. I tried to soak in the rhythm and inflection of the accents the way my mom had done with old recordings and movies she’d picked up when working on her books. She used it for help with dialogue. I wondered if I could pick up enough to get by speaking. The slang would take more time, but with a passable accent, I would attract less attention out on the streets.

And being able to move unnoticed through Whitechapel was going to be important.

Because I was going to catch Jack the Ripper.

It had to be my ticket home.

If I caught Jack there wouldn’t be the never-ending mystery and Agatha couldn’t have dragged me to that convention.

***

Dawn was just creeping over the dingy brick facades of Commercial Street when I left the pub. The area came to life as more working men and women, housewives, businessmen, children, horse-drawn wagons, and trinket-sellers filled the streets and sidewalks either going to work or getting about their business.

I’d discovered “breakfast” for a workingman meant a pot of tea, a weird fish called a kipper, and two slices of dry bread and butter. If I didn’t get back to my own time soon, the air and the food would kill me for sure.

Trying not to concentrate on the absence of a real breakfast, I’d spent the time in the pub alternating between mentally rehearsing a story for Ian and trying to pick up a reasonable facsimile of one of the local accents. I had to treat this the way my dad and uncle would view an undercover assignment because, in a way, it was. I had to blend in. Partly to keep from getting ganged up on by the local “incorrigible youths” and partly to get enough clues to solve the crime.

What would make it really difficult was Ian. Would he want me to stay at his house? I knew he was married but didn’t think they had any kids. Would they want to “adopt” me and make me go to school? That would suck. The suckage took on a whole new level once I made it to the police station and was directed to Ian’s office.

He had questions. Lots of questions and, as good a liar as I was, I sweated the answers. I hoped claiming memory loss would go a long way to make it all fall into place.

“I remember leaving Pittsburgh on the train…the next thing is the walk in the park…then…waking up on the ground. I think I might have been jumped before the cop came along. They or he must have grabbed my money, but I guess I was lying on my side so they couldn’t get that watch. Or maybe the bobby scared the guy off before he could finish the job. I probably have a trunk of clothes at some hotel or someone’s house somewhere.”

Ian scowled. “And what of this ‘Aunt Agatha’ you’ve mentioned? I have only two sisters. How is this woman a relation of yours?”

“Well, she was a family friend on my dad’s side.”

“Where is she? What is her surname? Surely she must be worried about you? You attended a party with her then disappeared? How could she not be concerned?”

Think, dude, think.
“We argued. She kept telling me how much of a disappointment I was to my mother, how I needed to act properly and stop running around with hooligans.”

It was pretty much true she had said that exact thing when she’d first picked me up to take me on the summer punishment tour. “I don’t think she’ll look for me. I think she’s pushing me into the deep end of the pool to see if I sink or swim.”

Ian put a report or something into his desk, slamming the drawer in frustration or anger. I wasn’t sure which.

I held my breath, relieved when Ian dismissed me with a gruff. “Be off with you. I have work to do.”

I lingered at the door, slipped my hand into my pocket, and fiddled with the remaining coins from the money Ian had sent to me. “I hate to ask, and I don’t want to be a burden or anything, but would it be at all possible to spend the night at your place or even here in an empty cell or office or something? If I can’t find a place to sleep before then.”

Ian exhaled a long slow breath.

Yeah, my dad had definitely inherited a sizeable chunk of the Fraser DNA. I had a good idea where this was headed.

“Never mind. I’ll figure something out.” I fished the coins out of my pocket and headed back to my ancestor’s desk. “Here’s the change from what you sent to the Trambley’s. I took a carriage here and bought breakfast. I hope that was okay.”

Ian simply stared at me. The reality that I was absolutely alone here hit me harder than anything I could remember. Suddenly, I was like a scared little kid wanting to run and hide.

“Keep the money, and here.” Ian dug into his pocket and withdrew a few more coins along with a paper bill. “Go get yourself acquainted with the area. You can spend the night at my house. I’ll send a note ‘round to Imogen to let her know.”

“You don’t have to bother. It’s all right to say no.”

Ian came around the desk and patted my shoulder. “It’s no real trouble, lad. Now go one and leave me to my never-ending stack of reports.”

I nodded, and offered him a small smile. “Thank you. Uncle Ian.”

Ian nodded and I told myself he had a half smile of his own.

Once outside on the street, I heaved a sigh of relief at having a nice place to stay at least for one night and instantly regretted it. The air was as thick and noxious as the exhaust of a Port Authority bus back home. I leaned against the building to steady myself. I might
never
see another bus, or Pittsburgh or my parents again.

Don’t go emo now, dumbass.

I straightened up. I would do the same thing as I always did when I was miserable and not wanting to hang out with my friends and party. I’d walk. I’d been on the “Ripper Walk” with Agatha, twice no less. I could find my way around a bit. Sure, the East End had really changed but a lot was similar and in some places the same.

I wandered off the main streets, into the heart of Whitechapel. I’d seen my share of period photos Mom had collected but nothing compared to seeing the narrow, littered streets up close and personal. The back alleys with their rough brick paving were sloped from the houses towards the middle so they could serve as open drains and sewers.

More than once, I had to dash for cover when the cry “Oy! Below!” sounded seconds before the nasty contents of a bucket were dumped out a second or third floor window.

The alleys reeked of every imaginable foul odor and echoed with the sound of dogs barking, babies crying, and assorted angry shouts and a couple shouts of “murder!” But the “murders” were only loud arguments with the neighbors gathered round to watch and shout encouragement to one of the combatants or the other.

Buildings that would have been condemned in my own time housed so many people here. I knew from Mom’s books that cheap doss houses had rooms where a dozen men and women would be cramped in a single space for the night. Families of five or more could be crammed into an apartment smaller than my bedroom back home.

Just like Mom had written in her Ripper book, I walked past men, women, and children, not sure if they’d have the money to pay for their doss, their room, tonight.

My skin crawled at the thought of living daily under these conditions. Even if finding the real Ripper was a way to get back home, the guy wasn’t due to kill again for three weeks at least. Could I survive on my own long enough to catch the killer at the scene of the crime? And would that really help or just make things worse?

Don’t think or spaz, just walk.
The brain proposed a good plan so I followed it.

I wandered through the maze of roads and back alleys for over an hour when I came upon an outdoor market in a small square. There was a general bustle of doing business, not unlike the flea markets I’d been dragged to when touring the East Coast with Agatha.