Chapter 4
Tuesday, 25 September, 1888
Jacynda woke with a start. She’d been dreaming about a gaggle of flamingos that had sailed across time to teach her the pas de deux. No matter how hard they tried, she kept falling on her face.
A loud knock at the door.
What? She grimaced. That had been too blunt. She’d have to be more careful.
Breakfast, Miss Lassiter, Mildred’s voice called.
Thank you. The sound of retreating footsteps. Was Mildred aware that Cynda wasn’t quite like her sister’s other guests?
It took three attempts to crawl out of bed. Much to her annoyance, she found the spider lurking in the washbasin.
Smaller now, it wore a shower cap and was scrubbing under one of its many armpits, whistling a tune.
She stifled a shriek and downed more chocolate. When her head stopped spinning, the washbasin was empty.
It’s never been this bad. Cynda splashed cold water on her face and then rummaged through the wardrobe for the black dress. It seemed to weigh even more this morning. She finally wiggled into it, did a passing job on her hair and brushed her teeth with the tooth powder.
Yuck. She spit the stuff into the washbasin.
Lacing the boots took an eternity, interspersed with headspinning vertigo. As she rested between bouts of lacing, she heard a newsboy crying out the headlines on the street below. The clock was running.
TIC allowed three time insertion points in 1888 London, all well before the murders began on the last day of August. After that, London was a no-go zone until 1889. Too many would-be fortune hunters sought to uncover the identity of the Whitechapel killer and, in the process, royally screw history. Jack the Ripper, as he would soon be dubbed by the salacious Victorian press, had method in his madness, and far be it from TIC or any other time broker to mess with his legacy.
Cynda had just a few days to round up the missing tourist and leave the city before the first prostitute would be found dead in Buck’s Row. Once the murders began, every suspicious gentleman came under intense police scrutiny. TIC’s tourists were prime targets.
With a heavy sigh, she finished the lacing, making a mental note to put on the boots before the dress the next time.
A flitter under the curtain caught her notice. A moth ruffled its wings on the windowsill. Cynda shooed it outside and shut the window with a noisy thump. Her hands came away dark with coal dust. She brushed them on her skirt rather than tempting fate at the washbasin again.
The boots continued to pinch as she made her way to the stairwell. And there it was…fifteen steps to the first floor. The night before, she’d been unconscious on the way up. Who had carried me? Probably the doctor.
How Gothic, she said, shaking her head.
Cynda grasped the banister and made the first step, then the next, heavy skirts dragging behind her like Jacob Marley’s chains.
A bolt of lag lightning crashed into the newel post at the bottom, shattering into a burst of brilliant pinwheels. She ignored it and kept moving downward, one step at a time. She doubted the doctor would be that sympathetic if she cracked an ankle.
Four more…three…two… She heaved a long sigh of relief when she reached the bottom step. A quick look around proved no one had seen her performance. Perfect.
The sound of amiable conversation and the smell of food lured her toward the dining room. It was moderate-sized, with bright gold floral wallpaper and oppressively heavy drapes in the style of the time. A fire burned in the hearth. China dishes mounded with food covered the top of a large buffet. Annabelle’s was a favorite stop for Victorian travelers; her scones were legendary.
Five guests were already at the table. Cynda let her eyes hopscotch over the four male faces. None of them was the missing academic, but then that matched Mildred’s report.
Stifling a choice swear word, she entered the room as quietly as possible. Two of the men were discussing the prime minister in less-than-flattering terms.
He’s got his nephew at the trough, doesn’t he? one observed.
That says it all.
Balfour’s not that bad of a chap, the other man retorted.
Well, that remains to be seen.
Belatedly, they looked up. Cynda made her apologies and headed for the buffet table to gather a plate and inventory the selection––gammon, eggs, crusty bread and cheese. Not a fruit in sight. Heavy on protein, heavy on starch. She kept the groan to herself. The mantra of the moment was to blend in as best as possible. Unless one of her fellow diners was an American, she should do fairly well. Eccentricities of speech and mannerisms could be fobbed off as a Colonial defect.
Managing the heavy skirts and the plate took some doing, but she arrived at the table without tripping—a major faux pas for someone supposedly accustomed to the garments. As she settled into the chair, three of the men rose out of respect. She gave a polite nod. The fourth gentleman pointedly ignored her; head bent, working a crossword puzzle with religious fervor. Quite unusual during a meal. He received a stern look from Dr.
Montrose, but didn’t notice.
Cynda arranged her cutlery. As expected, almost all eyes were on her.
Good morning, Miss Lassiter, the doctor said, tucking a napkin in his lap. The dark circles under his eyes were a shade lighter this morning. True to her prediction, his cheek sported a magnificent bruise. I trust you are…improved.
Not really. Much better, thank you, Dr. Montrose, she fibbed.
No further…incidents? he asked, eyes narrowing.
She ground her teeth. No, I’m fine. I appreciate your concern.
Just pad your bill and leave me be.
As if on cue, another gentleman chimed in. Horatio Bottom, and this is my wife, Millicent, he said, indicating the plump woman setting next to him. We’re from Dover.
I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Cynda replied. Her stomach growled in response to the food. A quick glance at the doctor indicated he’d heard. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin in an attempt to hide his smile.
Lucius Everson, miss, the gentleman next to her announced.
Good morning, sir. Are you perhaps a wool merchant? That was fairly easy to guess since he had stray bits of the stuff on his coat sleeve. Still, it made for a nice opening gambit.
Why, yes, I am. He traded glances with the doctor and then sighed. Apparently, the puzzle jockey wasn’t going to be polite.
Everson performed the introduction. And that is Mr. Hix,
gesturing toward the man fixated on the newspaper. No response from the miscreant as he tapped a pencil on the paper in thought, smoke-colored glasses perched on the end of his nose. Odder still, he wore black gloves at the table.
Whoa, this one’s eccentric.
Embarrassed at the man’s lack of manners, Everson explained, My apologies. He’s a bit caught up right now.
Humpff? the fellow said, but he didn’t look up.
Is Mr. Hix a wool merchant as well? she asked.
No, he’s an accountant. Probably a good one, I would gather, given his degree of single-mindedness, Everson replied.
I understand, she said politely. Now that the formalities were over, she dug into her breakfast. Resisting the temptation to pick the ham up with her fingers and stuff it in her mouth, she methodically cut and ate the fatty meat in manageable bites.
Are you from America? Mr. Bottom asked, applying marmalade to a piece of bread he’d plucked from a silver toast rack.
Yes, I am.
Is this your first trip to London?
No, I come here fairly often. My uncle is unable to travel, and so I come here in his stead. Her brain gave her a thumbs-up on speech complexity. Now if she didn’t blurt something stupid, she’d carry it off.
In his stead? Mr. Bottom asked with a puzzled look.
I conduct research for him.
Research? the doctor jumped in.