Shadows Fall Away (12 page)

Ian’s face went rigid, but before either of us moved, Reid himself came huffing into the office with a copy of the
paper
in his hand. He burst forward and thrust it in my face.

I was beginning to believe that pushing newspapers in people’s faces was an annoying British habit.

“Are you Mark Stewart?” he demanded. “The Mark Stewart who wrote this?”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

“Well, then, I wanted to thank you personally. Smashing, simply smashing.” He turned to Ian. “Lad’s the only one who speaks any sense about this whole affair. And his suggestion is brilliant.”

I looked up, surprised. Ian looked stunned, caught between shock and relief.

“There is the part I particularly liked,” the Chief Inspector continued, putting on a pair of glasses and squinting at the small type. “Ah! Here it is.”

“There are those, and there will be more, who will cry the police are not doing enough, that they are standing idly by, that they have abandoned the people of Whitechapel. But it is you who are not doing enough, you who are standing by, you who have abandoned your neighbors. It is you who have turned your back on this woman.”

“You have refused to talk to the police. If you somehow think you are protecting yourself, you are wrong. Dead wrong.”

The Chief Inspector looked up. “Smashing. Brilliant.” He pumped my hand. “It’s about time someone understood the policeman’s side of the story. Keep up the good work.”

He turned and rushed out.

I looked at Ian. “Can I go now?”

“Quite. Off with you, then,” Ian muttered. “And do pop ‘round for dinner later. Eight-ish.”

Even though I was wiped out, I was too wound-up to sleep. I often felt like this after skating all day or cramming for finals. Delicious smells from the tea shop reached out to grab me as I walked back from the police station.

“Marry me, Mrs. O’Connell,” I said when she handed me a steaming cup of coffee and a huge sticky bun without my even having to order.

She laughed. “I’ll not be buying your American blarney this day, my lad.”

I stifled a yawn. “I’m too tired to throw the blarney or much else this morning.” I sipped from the steaming mug. Real coffee. Good coffee. “This is the first decent cup I’ve had since I’ve been here.”

She laughed and swatted at me with her cleaning rag.

The small bell over the door tinkled, signaling the arrival of customers. Paying no attention, I dug into the roll, loving the sweet, rich, nut-flavored dough that melted in my mouth. I reluctantly looked up at the sound of a sleepy greeting.

Genie Trambley slipped as well as her cumbersome skirts would allow onto the high seat at the end of the counter next to me. “That smells delightful. I imagine the taste is even better.”

“It is,” I said, taking another large bite.

“And what might I get you, Miss Trambley?” Mrs. O’Connell asked.

“I’ll have the same as Mr. Stewart, except with tea.” She turned and regarded me carefully. “You’re quite the talk of the town this morning.”

“It’s a lot of fuss over something that should have been obvious to anyone.”

Stifling a yawn, she sipped her tea. “You look a bit rumpled around the edges. A long night, was it?”

“Ah, well, some long nights are more entertaining than others. Unfortunately, I spent last night with a screaming Russian. I hope you had better company.”

Genie’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

I shrugged and returned my attention to the food. “Nothing.”

“What I find fascinating,” she said, as she broke a small piece off the roll, “is that you’ve been in London for—what is it—two or three days?”

“That I can remember,” I corrected.

She gave me an irritated smile. “And yet you already know the solution to all the problems here in the East End. Somehow you know more than all the social reformers who have made extensive studies of the area.”

I shook my head, not sure where she was going. “I made some common sense observations.”

“Did you now?”

“And your little article somehow gives them hope?”

I glared at her. “I suggested they stand up. That’s the first thing they have to do. You can’t fight a battle, any battle, sitting on your as…divan.”

“I doubt many of them even have a divan.”

“The point is if they don’t cooperate with the police, the killer will never be found.”

She sniffed. “Perhaps I’m just one of those ‘West End do-gooders’ you mentioned, those who exhibit—how did you put it?—‘misplaced missionary zeal.’”

I gritted my teeth. “I was talking about the people who call for changes but have never seen the problems first-hand. So that obviously doesn’t include you.”

“And setting yourself up as the person to talk to if someone has information on the killer somehow addresses this problem?” she asked skeptically

“I was just trying to get the people to think of themselves as having a part of the solution, not that they can solve everything. And if they’re afraid to talk to the police why not tell me or Gurov or the guy who runs the print shop during the day?”

“I find it interesting that you have addressed your own ‘missionary zeal’ to a class of people you don’t really know and who can’t even afford to buy the paper and, if they could, probably couldn’t read the words you wrote.”

I frowned and stared down into my empty cup. She had a point.

“I see you’ve decided to grow a beard,” she said after a time. “I rather doubt it will suit you. That is merely my misguided, female opinion of course, Mr. Stewart.”

I scratched my cheek. “Yeah, well, I’m still not too handy with that razor. I’d go to a barber but at the moment, I don’t want to spend the money.”

The awkward silence between us grew despite the surrounding clatter of crockery and voices of the customers until Mrs. O’Connell interrupted.

“Not to be rushing you off,” she said, clearly trying to hurry us along. “But seeing as how you’ve finished, I’ll be clearing these spots for others if you won’t be ordering more.”

“Of course, Mrs. O’Connell.” Genie stood, smoothing her skirts. “I really must be off. I have things to attend to.”

“Wait up,” I called as she walked away from the counter.

***

Genie

I turned, watching the way he moved, his body reminiscent of a powerful beast stalking its prey. Despite the warmth of the shop, a small shiver ran down my spine as he approached. Inhaling a slow, calming breath, I took a step away from the traffic flow entering and exiting the shop and waited for the question I hoped was coming.

Mark stopped and shifted uneasily as if this was the most difficult thing he’d had to do in ages. “I’d appreciate it, that is if you don’t mind, if maybe you could, um, show me how again?”

“Beg pardon?” My heart thudded in my chest, all but drowning out his words.

He stared questioningly. “Shave. Would you help me get the hang of that straight razor?”

I swallowed hard and forced myself to back away. “I suppose, since we seem destined to keep running into each other, I would prefer for you to look respectable.”

“Great,” he said, “I really appreciate it.”

I waited for him to open the door. When he didn’t, I cleared my throat and inclined my head.

He seemed confused for a moment, then brightened as he took the not-too-subtle hint. I couldn’t help but shiver again when his arm brushed against me as he reached past to open the door.

Leading the way around the corner to the flat entrance, Mark cautioned as he unlocked the door to the small corridor. “Watch your step. Stairway’s kind of dark.”

I hesitated, my common sense shouting to turn at once and go. If anyone saw this, I’d be ruined, totally ruined! And yet, the moment he called, “You coming up?” I followed like an obedient puppy.

“Here we go.” Mark smiled. He unlatched the door and motioned me inside. “It’s not much but, considering breakfast is included, I think it’s a good deal.”

“It’s quite nice for this area.” I took in the room, no bigger than our parlor. There were two serviceable wooden chairs, a small round table, a bed, and several small cabinets. There was a worn braided rug in the middle of the floor. Along the back wall was a shelf that served as the cooking area with a gas ring, basin, kettle, and a few cooking implements. “There are families of six or more that live in smaller spaces. Or worse.”

Mark looked a little guilty and in a haste turned away to hang up his hat. The awkward silence descended again while my inner voice continued to scold me on the foolishness of being here. I was about to heed the warnings when Mark spoke. His smooth, accented voice froze me in place.

“I’ll get the razor,” he said. “Ian was nice enough to give me a spare along with a shaving cup.”

He took the kit from the bureau, brought it and a small porcelain basin to the table, and went to get the water pitcher. He moved so smoothly, so confidently, not at all the arrogant preening stride of the young doctors at Father’s hospital. I watched as Mark poured some hot water into the basin. My jaw sagged open when he unbuttoned his shirt.

“Mr. Stewart! Whatever are you doing?”

“Taking off my shirt? I don’t want it to get wet. It’s the only clean one I have and I’m supposed to go to Ian’s later.”

“Oh.” I fidgeted with my reticule strap.

His look changed to one a little more direct. “You’ve seen me with nothing more than a towel on. I don’t see why me without a shirt is a problem now.”

My heart hammered in my chest. “Well, then you were a patient. It was quite different.”

“Oh?” he asked, a glint in his eye.

I struggled to retain my composure. Setting my bag on the table, I picked up the razor. “I declare the subject of your dress, and lack thereof, closed.”

Mark laughed, then plucked the razor from my hand. “You were going to teach me, not shave me, right?”

“Correct.” I made a mental note to stop at Christ Church and pray for forgiveness for my impure thoughts in dwelling upon the memory of the perfection that was his bare torso.

I stood idly by and watched as Mark sat at the table, coaxed lather from the shaving cup and applied it to his face. More impure thoughts roused me at the sight of his every move. The way his muscles rippled along his shoulders and arms and across his chest, the way the cords of his neck stood out at he turned his head. Yes, it was quite different from the last time. This time it felt far more dangerous. I pressed my hands together a moment to still the trembling of my fingers before I moved to stand behind the chair. I leaned over him and adjusted the angle of the razor.

“The secret to this is smooth, firm, yet gentle strokes.”

He pulled the razor back and laughed.

“And just what is so funny Mr. Stewart?”

“Oh,” he said, shaking off his laughter. “Nothing. It just reminded me of—something else.”

I puzzled over the comment for a moment before a possible meaning struck. Heat rushed through me and my head felt a little giddy. I steadied myself on the back of the chair, glad I stood behind him until I realized he was watching me in the shaving mirror.

“Mr. Stewart!”

His eyes grew wide and innocent. “Miss Trambley, what were you thinking?”

“This is a very bad idea!”

I darted around the chair to grab my bag only to have his hand clamp about my wrist, holding me in place.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. He let go on my arm then brandished the razor with a flourish and carefully applied it to his face. “Smooth, firm, yet gentle strokes—at this angle, right?”

I nodded, certain I blushed the entire time he spent shaving.

Genie

“It so happens I have discovered someone who might know something about the George Yard murder,” I told him while I dabbed a styptic pencil at the last of the nicks he’d inflicted upon himself. Despite the nicks, he’d done a respectable job.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Because you were too busy telling me what was wrong with society.”

“Whatever. Has she gone to the police? Or have you?”

“I would have, but now she’ll only talk to you. So I suggest we go find her.”

Mark tugged on his shirt and waistcoat and fumbled with his cravat while I shook my head until he finally gave in and allowed me to knot it properly. “I suppose I shall have to educate you in dressing as well.” Not waiting for an answer, I made my way to the door.

Mark took his jacket and hat. I gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement when he opened the door without being prodded and let him lead the way down the narrow staircase, praying we would not be seen exiting together

***

Mark

I followed her, but not so quickly that I couldn’t take a minute to appreciate the fascinating movement of Genie’s swaying bustle. When I came up alongside her, remembering to take the street side, I couldn’t help but compare her snug-fitting yet entirely modest long dress to the tight tees and short skirts worn by the girls I knew. Sure, they could dress up and usually had more sensible clothes for school but somehow I didn’t see them giving off the elegant, sexy air Genie Trambley exuded, in spite of her rigid posture and the coolness of her expression.

While I appreciated a girl showing a bit of leg and a lot of cleavage as much as the next guy, and that was a lot, Genie seemed to have something they didn’t. Was it class, something else? What?

Maybe it was the rustling of her petticoats as she hurried along or the smoothness of her waist and the firm shape of her boobs that didn’t have the “bounce” of the girls back home.

Knowing where my hormones were trying to direct this line of thought, I took my attention off Genie. Getting up close and personal with her wasn’t going to happen because, A) she’d never go for it and B) I just plain couldn’t. I needed to stay focused on finding the Ripper so I could get back to my own time. It was as simple as that.

Still, I wondered why I found her Victorian dress sexy. I also wondered why I wasn’t feeling too weird in my own old-style clothes that left a lot to be desired in terms of comfort. I glimpsed myself in the window of a shop and nearly laughed out loud, imagining my friend Sam’s expression if he saw me in my three-piece suit with the short, wide cravat and bowler hat instead of the usual T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sneakers.