Shadows Fall Away (5 page)

An accented voice startled me. “Good evening.”

I shivered, immediately reminding myself that I was in a direct downdraft from the ceiling fan. I turned to greet our hostess, more than a little surprised by the purported psychic’s conservative appearance and plain looks. She could have been any housewife you’d pass in a grocery store. I gestured to the bookshelf. “I hope you don’t mind my curiosity. I collect old books on a variety of subjects.”

“My collection is eclectic.” The woman brushed a stray strand of hair back from her face. “It’s mostly inherited, though I’ve added most of the modern volumes on magick and other things supernatural.” She paused, gesturing to a round, velvet-covered table near the fireplace.

I sat again tucking my purse onto my lap. Percy lowered himself next to me and patted my hand.

“Madam Eltsina—” Percy began.

The psychic interrupted. “I’d rather Miss Swinden do the talking.”

The psychic sat opposite me and took a pencil and paper from an inlaid box in the middle of the table.

“Have you a specific question?” she asked. “Or is there anything you’d like to tell me first?”

“I hoped you could tell me something.”

Madame Eltsina’s reply was a tight-lipped smile. Just as I thought. A charlatan.

She closed her eyes, placed her hands palm down on the purple tablecloth. “You’ve lost someone, quite literally lost them, and hope I can guide you to them.”

“Yes,” I said dryly, knowing Percy would have mentioned that when he made the appointment.

“It was the storm. The lightning. He was hit but not injured. He was…sent.”

“Sent?”

“Called away.” Madam Eltsina opened her eyes. “It’s all very hazy, as if I’m trying to see through a thick fog.” She turned to Percy with a slight smile of teasing her lips. “And I keep getting images of Oscar Wilde. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to wait outside, Percy.”

Percy looked moderately embarrassed and excused himself.

The psychic resumed her pose. “Odd. The images have shifted, but they refuse to come back to the present.”

“I see.” The academic in me thoroughly dismissed Percy’s assertions of his friend’s paranormal talents while another part admired the woman’s acting and stagecraft. Had she been dressed like a gypsy, I would have expected more theatrics. Maybe a few startling revelations. But the vague pronouncements of a middle-class suburban housewife were intended to seem much more matter-of-fact.

“You have something that belonged to him,” she said suddenly. “Something he carried with him.”

I stared a moment then realized it was just a good guess on the medium’s part. Of course, I might bring something of Mark’s. I withdrew his passport and wallet from my purse and handed them across the table.

Madam Eltsina flipped open the passport and glanced at the photo and was about to dismiss it when she stopped then looked more closely.

“Something about his photo?” I asked, sure the woman was just looking at the personal information to make her revelations seem more plausible.

“I’ve seen him before,” she said, genuinely puzzled. “But not…not…” she groped for the right word, “…not…
here
.” She paused and frowned as if angry with herself. “I can’t even tell you what that means.” She put down the passport then turned her attention to the wallet. She seemed to experience a physical jolt when she touched it. “He’s distant—unharmed, but…oh.” She sighed in exasperation. “Oscar Wilde again. Percy,” she called into the entryway, “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait outside. You’re clouding everything in Victoriana.”

She gave me a slightly embarrassed smile then returned her attention to the wallet. She seemed to struggle with something for a moment then dropped it back to the table. “I’m sorry, but the images seem to be stuck in the late nineteenth century.” She hesitated, biting her lower lip. “And now I’m not entirely sure it’s Percy’s presence mucking things up. He and I do have a certain bond but still, the images are so strong.”

“Mark and I attended the Jack the Ripper convention,” I said brusquely. “I’m sure Percy mentioned it. Perhaps that’s it.”

“Perhaps,” Madam Eltsina replied as though she were unconvinced. She shook her head. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more at the moment.”

“Well.” I tucked Mark’s things away and took out my wallet. “If you tell me how much I owe you
,
I’ll be on my way.” When the psychic didn’t answer, I glanced up, noticing her attention on my handbag. She took up her pencil and began writing. I almost heard young Mark making one of his sarcastic observations
. It’s gonna say this is a stick-up.
But I noticed that she was writing with her left hand in spite of the fact she’d appeared to be right-handed.

I watched her continue to write, entirely oblivious to my presence as she filled the page rapidly with a small, precise script. The pencil flew out of her hand at the end and she stopped, looking as surprised as I must have appeared.

“Could you have Percy fetch me a glass of brandy?” She was visibly drained, breathing quickly, her body trembling.

Percy rushed into the room as soon as I called for him. He made a great fuss with the brandy. His eyes went wide and his mouth made a silent “O” when he saw the paper on the table.

“Have you ever heard of ‘automatic writing’?” he asked me.

“Not particularly.”

“Sometimes a spirit or essence takes over the body or mind of a medium and uses that to communicate in writing. I haven’t seen Madam Eltsina do that but once or twice in all the years I’ve known her.” He was obviously quite impressed.

“It wasn’t your friend writing.” Madam Eltsina regained her composure. “It was someone close to him close by blood but closer by proximity,” she added, pushing the paper across the table to Agatha. “It means nothing to me but perhaps you might understand it.”

6 August

At the risk of sounding like a doddering old woman, I cannot help but feel that some festering evil is in the air. Perhaps I’ve just been too close to Whitechapel for too long, seen too much filth and cruelty, too many lost souls. Yet when I was told yesterday that Puckeridge had been released from the asylum, in the back of my
mind I heard his threat, saw the maniacal gleam in his eye when he said he liked nothing better than to “rip people up.”

I wonder if I should tell the Pest that maniac Puckeridge is free. She’ll learn it soon enough. No sense encouraging her to try and aid another “lost soul.”

And then there’s the problem of M.J. Is he what he appears—and what exactly is that? The Pest seems to have taken an inordinate interest in him. Can I use this to my advantage? If not, whatever shall I do with him, if anything at all?

I shivered for I knew those words. I’d read them in the diary of Mark’s ancestor.

“Ian Foster. No, Fraser,” Madam Eltsina said suddenly. “That’s the name.”

“Indeed.” I took in the handwriting so similar to the ink script in the journal Mark had brought from home.

But what did this mean? What could
it possibly
mean?

1888

Mark

I followed the sound of footsteps going down to the kitchen from the back door. I hesitated when I heard a man and a woman talking.

“…‘orrible, they say it was,” the man said. There was a chink of glass bottles. “Stabbed too many times to count. Found ‘er on the steps of a boarding house in George Yard. Not a stone’s throw from Commercial Street.”

The woman gasped. “Oh, saints preserve us!”

“Right nasty business, it is, Sarah, my girl,” the man agreed. “You tell your Miss Genie to stay away from the East End till they’ve caught this beast. You tell her good now.”

“You tell ‘er, you old fool. Think she’d listen to me? Or ‘er father? Or anyone? That girl…”

I stood there as the couple’s words sunk in and the memory of my mother’s book began sink in.

George Yard murder, August 7, 1888. Martha Tabram, the first of Jack the Ripper’s victims.

I slumped against the wall.

Okay. Here’s the deal: the lightning bolt somehow shot you through time to 1888 and Jack the Ripper’s just started his string of murders.
I suddenly wished my mother’s book had been of the nonfiction type and that I could rely on her plot to guide me home. Maybe.

My stomach rumbled. I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t been heard. Stupid appetite. I could hear the milkman trudge up the steps and go out the back door. I pushed away from the wall and ventured slowly down into the kitchen.

In the center was a big oak table with half-peeled potatoes on it. Against the wall stood an immense iron stove where a pot of water boiled and a steaming ceramic teapot rested on the sideboard next to it. Sideboard. Crap. At least my mom would be glad her awesome research stuck with readers.

But where was the woman I’d heard, Sarah? “Hello? Anyone here?”

I was answered by a small, startled scream from behind the icebox.

“Give a girl a scare, why don’t ya?” said the girl in a maid’s uniform. She wasn’t that much older than me. Average height, a bit on the thin side but plump enough in all the right places, brownish hair tucked back by her lacy white maid’s hat. She seemed familiar. Right, the one in the park last night.

“Feelin’ better are you?” She carried the last of the glass milk bottles to the icebox. “Well, you sit yourself down and I’ll get you a nice cuppa tea.” She prattled on. “I’m just putting breakfast on for ‘Arry, the groom. Won’t be a formal breakfast this mornin’ since the doctor and his missus went down to the hospital last night late and she’s just now returned. Miss Phoebe never wakes before lunch and Miss Genie…often skips breakfast,” she finished lamely.

She quite obviously wanted to move to a different topic. “I could fix you some nice bangers and mash. Or would you rather a full breakfast?” She stood waiting for an answer.

“Coffee would be good, if you have it,” I said, having no idea what the hell bangers and mash were. I couldn’t call up any food references my mom used.
Geez, Mom, your characters anorexic much?

Sarah put a tall coffee pot on the stove and lit the burner with a wooden match that flared and stank of sulfur. “I’ll ‘ave to look in the pantry to find the coffee, but we’ll start the water.”

Before I could say anything, the back door opened and a girl my age dressed in a navy Victorian dress, complete with gloves and a little ribbon-trimmed hat, slipped inside.

I knew her. She’d been trying to scope out my junk.

She shook out her umbrella and hid it in the rack by the back door. “Thank goodness the rain let up, Sarah. Otherwise, it would have been—” She froze when she finally noticed me sitting at the table.

“Oh, good.” She looked down, fussing with her gloves as if she was trying to think of an excuse for having been out at such an early hour. “It was just such a lovely morning—” She stopped, averted her gaze. “Feeling better?”

I shrugged. “I suppose. My head hurts and this robe feels weird. Never wore one like it.” I smiled and gave her a knowing look. “I know all about sneaking in when I’m not supposed to be out.”

She stiffened. “What exactly are you getting at?”

I winked. “Your secret’s safe with me, whatever it is.”

She stamped her foot. “I resent your insinuation, sir,”

“I don’t insinuate, I know. You were out being a bad girl weren’t you?”

She stiffened once more like a piece of rebar had been stuck in her back. Her eyes widened. “You have a most peculiar way of repaying the courtesies this house has shown you. But I suppose no more should be expected of someone who lolls about in a dressing gown and doesn’t even have the common courtesy to stand when a lady enters the room.”

She was really cheesed. “Sorry.” I stood awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Then it must come as a natural talent.” She turned her attention to search for the maid. “Sarah?”

“Oh, Miss.” Sarah emerged from the pantry with the coffee tin in her hand. “You’ve heard about the murder? I was so worried about you.”

“Murder?”

Sarah related what she’d heard from the milkman, making it seem as grisly as possible, as if she’d seen it firsthand.

“Poor woman!” the bad girl exclaimed. “I hope she didn’t have children.” She paused, horror washing cross her face. “And I might even have talked with her tonight…before…oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth.

“You were in Whitechapel last night?” I asked.

She regarded me with a frosty look. “This is none of your concern.”

“Look, I may be nothing but a rude American, but I know what I’m talking about on this. Stay away from there at night.”

She glared at me and turned back to the maid. “I’m going up now, and remember…”

“Yes, Miss, I know,” Sarah replied, automatically sketching a curtsey. “Not a word to the Master.”

***

Genie

I hurried upstairs and to my room as quietly as possible. That young man was so forward, so utterly rude. Why, if he said so much as a word to Father…well, if he did I knew he simply wouldn’t be believed. Sarah would back me up. The boy did have a head injury. Father would certainly believe he was babbling nonsense. He simply had to believe it.

I clenched and unclenched my fists and took several measured breaths in an effort to calm down. It would be fine. I hadn’t been found out yet and I wouldn’t be found out now. I simply wouldn’t.

I did my best to put that brash American out of my mind as I readied for bed and turned my thoughts to more important matters

The evening had been a complete shambles. Why wouldn’t those East End women listen to me? Oh, there had been the one or two who came up to me later and asked a few timid questions, but I knew they wouldn’t do anything further to seeking aid.

Was it really so difficult for them to accept my offer to help? So impossible to consider a modern way of thinking? Of course, they had to be willing to help themselves, didn’t they? I couldn’t do it for them. What I needed was a way to make then sit up and take notice, something to make them act. But what?

I lay in bed eyes closed, tossing this way and that. No matter how I tried to get comfortable it was to no avail. Eventually, I decided to simply lay in solitude and wait until it was a proper time to get up. At least my bed would look slept in. I clutched the bedclothes, angry at society, at my own failure with the women, and the innuendos of that irritating American boy.