Time Travel Omnibus, page 1035
Peter noticed their hut mates communicated through a series of nods and smiles, as though connected in a way that made speech unnecessary.
“I’m Peter and this is Evelyn.” Peter spoke slowly and deliberately, taking turns pointing to himself and his wife. He tried to coax names from the other couple, who gave him curious looks before he realized if they were the only two humans in this place, names were not needed. However, they appeared interested when Peter spoke and were eager to learn this form of communication.
Under Peter’s tutelage, they mastered words and phrases at such a rapid rate that scarcely a week had passed when they were nearly as fluent as Peter and Evelyn.
The pair reciprocated and introduced the new arrivals to the benefits of warm mineral pools, showers under cascading waterfalls, and taught them where to find food and springs of pure, delicious water.
It was paradise, Evelyn thought. Almost.
Several days later Peter and Evelyn followed their hosts to the entrance of a beautiful sanctuary in the middle of the garden. A stream of scintillating pale blue light surrounded a magnificent ancient tree.
“Forbidden,” the man said. “This place is . . .” He searched for one of the words Peter had taught him. “Hallowed.” He explained that the fruit was off limits, too, even though it dangled seductively from every branch of a particularly beguiling tree. “The knowledge of the universe is in the branches. Forbidden.”
Evelyn got the gist that to enter this sacred space and pluck from the tree would surely unleash dreadful retribution.
Time played out differently here as it seemed to flow in circles instead of the measured march toward a plotted destination. Every new day brought incredible things to discover within the overwhelming beauty of this enchanted region. There was an abundance of serene wild-life, and the creatures showed no fear of humans.
The absence of mosquitoes, biting flies, and other airborne annoyances that plagued them back home convinced Peter to cast his towel aside and embrace the nudist lifestyle. Peter noticed a renewed surge of vigor and stamina he’d not known since his carefree days of childhood, and his hair had grown thick and dark.
While he was having the time of his life, Evelyn sank into despair. She wondered if Peter would choose to stay behind should rescue come. Surely someone from the travel agency would come looking for them.
Paradise? Almost, but not quite. She craved her pomegranate martini lunches with friends, neighborhood gossip, morning beach runs, tennis, and clothes. She’d give anything to trade in her tattered towel for a sporty tennis outfit, and she longed for the companionship of her well-connected friends. Marnie, her friend and doubles partner, must be wondering why she’d been absent from their tennis tournament. Surely Marnie would launch an investigation to find her.
The police will be alerted, Evelyn thought.
Her mood lightened as she realized the authorities would certainly question neighbors, Peter’s coworkers, club members, and anyone who knew them. They were bound to discover a large sum of money Peter had paid to Timeshares Travel Agency, the last people to have contact with Peter before he disappeared. The travel agency must have a way to retrieve those trapped in another time without a transporting device.
After all, they were liable for this epic screwup, and their business was bound to suffer if they “lost” customers.
While Evelyn contemplated her plight, she heard the soft throaty call of an exquisite heron that was wading in the reeds in search of a mate. Iridescent dragonflies skimmed the surface of the clear water where Evelyn knelt for a drink. Absorbed in self pity, she splashed water on her tear-stained face and was astonished by her young reflection.
The crow’s feet and creases had vanished, and her short spiky gray hair was the color of glowing copper. She felt her lithe, thin body burst with the energy of a teenager. The road map of blue spider veins on her thighs had vanished. She peered once more into the water, not believing her eyes.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to save their marriage! Surely Peter had noticed her transformation.
What Peter had noticed was the other female.
Pain seared Evelyn’s heart as she observed him stealing glances at the beautiful young woman who was unaware of being watched.
Peter no longer seemed interested in returning home. In fact, he had grown accustomed to the quiet splendor of this sequestered place.
Early one morning while sitting under a coconut palm, Evelyn decided that when rescuers came, she would leave him here. This would save her the cost and humiliation of a sensational divorce. She’d simply tell friends that Peter was working overseas for an extended period, which could buy her time to plan a plausible story for his disappearance.
As the tension mounted between her and Peter, Evelyn noticed that the other woman was growing quite irritable toward her man. Busy brooding about the state of her life, Evelyn failed to notice the kind, handsome, seemingly flawless man who stole glimpses of her whenever possible.
While Evelyn gathered figs and mushrooms one day in a shady glen, she discovered Peter and the other woman; a crystal pond reflected them hand-in-hand and deep in whispered conversation. Evelyn crept closer to hear her husband regaling his enthusiastic subject with tales of Chicago and all its wonders.
You’d think he was the most powerful man in the world the way he’s going on, thought his furious wife. It sickened Evelyn to see the simpering female hang on every word uttered by that philandering old goat.
Her stomach churned as she listened to Peter. He promised his new trophy it would be no time at all before he had them back in Lake Forest. His new woman sat spellbound by the incredible places he described—theaters, restaurants, yachts, as well as maids and room service. Their new life together would be completed by a couple of children to fill the immense lakeshore home.
Evelyn’s fingers closed around a rock. One swift blow to the temple ought to do it, she thought. One blow, and . . . wait. If Peter is talking about Chicago, he must have found a way to get back home. And it was evident he planned to take his new conquest back with him while he left his wife behind.
Evelyn had planned to leave Peter here when the Timeshares folks finally showed up. Now it seemed Peter had a similar idea.
Evelyn’s mind spun. If she wanted to be rescued she would have to stalk the two from the shadows to stay close. If the other woman returned with them, so be it. Out with the old and in with the new, huh? Let her spend a Chicago winter in that outfit, Evelyn mused.
She quietly pursued them, creeping along at a generous distance until night fell. It seemed like hours before the two stopped to curl into each other’s arms under the protection of a sprawling tree.
Bone tired, Evelyn crouched behind a nearby thicket, worried that Peter suspected he was being trailed. He had periodically stopped suddenly to look behind him. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream as the smooth scales of something long slithered across her bare ankle. A snake? She looked, but couldn’t see it. Eventually, the distant rhythm of her husband’s measured snores lulled her to sleep.
Evelyn woke, encapsulated in the gray mist that hung heavy as damp gauze. To her horror, Peter had vanished—along with his prize. She frantically retraced her steps to the crystal pool, terrified they would leave without her.
The earth quaked beneath her feet and thunder boomed, nearly felling her. Was the nearby mountain about to explode? The morning sky darkened and a deathly silence closed around her. Birdsong, animal chatter, croaks—all the natural sounds she’d grown used to hearing were replaced by an ominous, eerie stillness. She shuddered as a chill wove its way up her spine.
Suddenly Evelyn knew where her husband had gone.
She raced toward the middle of the garden, practically running into the abandoned man who pounded up beside her. They halted before a barrier of thick blue flames that surrounded the forbidden tree. Evelyn could barely see Peter and his new woman through the blue light.
Shards of white-hot lightening burst from the sky while Peter and his woman shook behind two leaves the size of elephant ears. A golden piece of fruit lay at their feet, bearing two sets of bite marks. A heartbeat later, the couple vanished.
The flames disappeared, and in their place stood a radiant angel brandishing a flaming sword.
“The violators have been banished from paradise!” the angel announced. Then he, too, was gone.
Evelyn felt a soft touch on her bare shoulder.
She turned to meet the kind sapphire eyes of the man left behind. Held by his magnificent gaze, she felt their unexpected connection and instantly realized everything that had been missing from her life.
Evelyn no longer yearned for status that came from club presidencies and committee memberships, vacations to Monaco or cruises on expensive yachts.
In that moment she glimpsed her future with him and quickly bid farewell to her former life—along with her towel.
Tenderly, hand-in-hand, they made their way back to his hut.
After a delicious breakfast of fresh papaya and fish grilled over coconut shells, Evelyn studied the place and pondered how best to remodel it while her new mate sought a way to permanently rid paradise of that damn snake.
UNSOLVED HISTORIES
Greg Cox
The damp, foggy weather reminded her of Seattle.
The gaslights and hansom cabs did not.
“Welcome to the West End of London, heart of the city’s flourishing theater district,” the tour guide announced. Kenneth Ramsey’s bristling red muttonchops and thick walrus mustache fit the era perfectly, as did his formal black attire, white tie, and top hat. A gilded watch chain dangled from his vest pocket. His plummy British accent certainly sounded authentic. “Home to Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Oscar Wilde, and other luminaries of the Victorian stage.”
His lips barely moved as he subvocalized into the miniaturized microphone concealed in his impeccably knotted silk tie. His spiel was instantly transmitted to tiny receivers discreetly hidden in the ears of the small party of time tourists surrounding him on the sidewalk in front of the legendary Lyceum Theatre. Eager theatergoers dressed to the nines milled past them, necessitating such technological legerdemain. It wouldn’t do for the natives of this bygone age to overhear them.
Pretty slick, Celeste thought. Timeshares seemed to have thought of everything. Her earpiece itched, however, and she resisted an urge to fiddle with it. She also felt slightly queasy, apparently a routine side effect of temporal dislocation. Ramsey had assured her the timesickness would pass. It had better. I have big plans for this evening, and they don’t involve me puking all over the nineteenth century.
She contemplated her fellow tourists, who included a middle-aged couple from Ohio, their bored-looking teenage son, and a somewhat nerdy-looking young man wearing a deerstalker cap in emulation of his idol, Sherlock Holmes. All were dressed in formal period attire, provided by Timeshares for a nominal fee. Their package deal included three nights in Victorian England, including meals, accommodations in a luxury hotel, and entertainment. Even as a group excursion, it was a pricy trip, but if everything went according to her plan, it would pay off big time.
Or so Celeste hoped.
For now, though, she just needed to play along and pretend to be merely another time-traveling sightseer. A slender woman pushing forty, she found her elaborate Victorian getup less comfortable than her usual sweatpants and T-shirt. Along with the others, she took in the deliciously old-time atmosphere, gawking openly like out of towners. Horse-drawn carriages disgorged a steady stream of elegantly bedecked gentlemen and ladies who braved the drizzly autumn weather for a night at the theater. Flower girls, straight out of My Fair Lady, hawked posies to their betters. Liveried coachmen held open doors. Mist fogged the spacious avenue, adding a nostalgic haze to the scene. The lambent glow of the gaslights shone through fog like fairy nimbuses. Towering marble columns supported the Lyceum’s imposing portico. A hubbub of voices competed with the clop clop of the horse’s hooves. A stocky bearded Irishman stood atop the steps leading to the Lyceum’s grand entrance, fulsomely greeting each dignitary. Celeste realized with a start that it was Bram Stoker, the theater’s acting manager. Had he written Dracula yet? No, that was still nine years away . . .
“I can’t believe it,” half of the married couple murmured in awe. What was his name again? Brian? Ryan? He hesitantly touched the base of a nearby streetlight, as though expecting it to pop like a soap bubble upon contact. “It’s so real.”
“It is real,” Ramsey insisted. “This is no theme park or VR simulation. It’s actually November 8, 1888.” He rapped a marble column with his knuckles. “You’re really in London during the reign of Queen Victoria, when the sun never set on the British Empire.” The fading light belied his words. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
The fanboy in the deerstalker hat raised his hand. “Aren’t the Jack the Ripper murders going on now?” Watery eyes gleamed with excitement. “I know it’s not on the itinerary, but any chance we can squeeze in a trip to Whitechapel?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Moskowitz,” Ramsey replied. “The East End of London is too dangerous at this point in history. Never mind the Ripper; nineteenth-century Whitechapel is a lawless slum where violent crime is commonplace. Maybe someday, if there’s sufficient demand, Timeshares can figure out a way to ensure our clientele’s safety on such an excursion. But for now liability and insurance issues preclude any detours to the bad part of town.”
“Oh,” Moskowitz said, obviously disappointed. The teenager, whom had visibly perked up at the mention of the grisly murders, slipped back into sullen adolescence. Moskowitz dabbed at a runny nose with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “Darn allergies,” he muttered. “This fog is wreaking havoc with my sinuses.” He blew his nose loudly. “You sure we can’t sneak in just a peek at the Ripper’s hunting grounds? I promise not to sue anybody.”
“Sorry,” Ramsey demurred. “It’s out of my hands.”
Celeste repressed a sigh of relief. She had her own plans regarding the Ripper, and she didn’t want any amateur sleuths or murder buffs horning in on them. There was too much at stake. Namely, my career.
The tour guide went back to hyping tonight’s activities. “Still, if it’s chills and thrills you’re after, I think we can oblige you with some of the fictional variety.” He gestured grandly at the ornate theater. “Tonight we have front row seats to Jekyll and Hyde, starring the great Victorian actor Richard Mansfield. This celebrated production, based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal classic, has been playing to sold-out audiences for months now. Believe me, it took no little effort to secure some tickets, but at Timeshares we spare no expense to make your vacations literally historic.”
And charge an arm and a leg for it, too, Celeste thought. But it would be worth the expense if she succeeded in what she had really signed onto this tour for. Forget Richard Mansfield, Jekyll and Hyde, and the rest of this whole “Gaslight & Greasepaint” enterprise. She was out to solve one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries.
Who was Jack the Ripper?
The show, and Mansfield’s performance, proved entertaining enough. Despite her impatience to get down to business, she had almost been disappointed when the cast took their final curtain calls.
Almost.
Big Ben tolled midnight as she gratefully shed her cumbersome Victorian finery in the privacy of the hotel room Timeshares had booked for her at the Carlton. In theory, the rest of the tour party had retired for the night in anticipation of tomorrow’s busy itinerary, which included a matinee showing of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Yeoman of the Guard with the original cast. With any luck, she’d know the Ripper’s identity by then and be fast on her way to fame and fortune.
Corset, bustle, stays, and petticoats hit the floor. On went the men’s attire she had stowed in a hidden compartment in her luggage. A dark Ulster coat helped disguise her already boyish figure. She tucked her short blond curls under a bowler hat. Chances were it would be easier—not to mention safer—to navigate the sordid back alleys of Whitechapel as a man. And the trousers would be lot easier to run in if something went amiss. Ramsey had not been exaggerating when he’d described the East End as the most dangerous part of London, and she was heading right into its most murderous depths.
Did she really want to do this?
Now that the moment was at hand, second thoughts assailed her. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. Her timesickness had passed, just as Ramsey had promised, but her stomach was still tied up in knots. She shivered at the prospect of venturing out into the foggy night on her own.
What other choice do I have? Sales of her true-crime books had been slipping for years now; royalties and downloads were drying up. Not that it was her fault. Could she help it if there were no truly great murder mysteries in her own time, when most any crime could be solved by matching DNA samples? Where was the drama in that? There were times she wanted to travel back in time just to kick Watson and Crick in their double helixes.
Thank heaven there were still great crimes—and great criminals—lurking in the past. Jack the Ripper was her ticket back to the top of the bestseller list, provided Timeshares didn’t get wind of what she was up to and pull the plug on tonight’s expedition. Fortunately, she had been able to book the tour under her real name, Celeste Jordan, instead of her pen name, Jordan Pinkerton, so as to avoid raising any red flags with the time-travel agency. If all went well, she could return to the twenty-first century with the Ripper’s true identity and no one would be the wiser—until her new book went on sale.
It was the perfect scheme, as long as she didn’t lose her nerve.
“No guts, no glory.” She had come too far, geographically and chronologically, to turn back now. Tucking an umbrella under her arm, she took a moment to inspect her disguise in a full-length mirror. “Not bad.” In the murky gaslight and fog, she would probably pass as a man. “Whitechapel, here I come.”
The East End was even worse than she had imagined. Only a short carriage ride had separated her ritzy accommodations from Whitechapel, yet she might as well as have taken a starship to another world. Celeste had memorized every book ever written about the Ripper and knew just how bad this neighborhood was supposed to be in Queen Victoria’s time, but it was one thing to read about the squalid conditions online, in the comfort of her air-conditioned condo in Seattle, and something else altogether to experience it for real.
“I’m Peter and this is Evelyn.” Peter spoke slowly and deliberately, taking turns pointing to himself and his wife. He tried to coax names from the other couple, who gave him curious looks before he realized if they were the only two humans in this place, names were not needed. However, they appeared interested when Peter spoke and were eager to learn this form of communication.
Under Peter’s tutelage, they mastered words and phrases at such a rapid rate that scarcely a week had passed when they were nearly as fluent as Peter and Evelyn.
The pair reciprocated and introduced the new arrivals to the benefits of warm mineral pools, showers under cascading waterfalls, and taught them where to find food and springs of pure, delicious water.
It was paradise, Evelyn thought. Almost.
Several days later Peter and Evelyn followed their hosts to the entrance of a beautiful sanctuary in the middle of the garden. A stream of scintillating pale blue light surrounded a magnificent ancient tree.
“Forbidden,” the man said. “This place is . . .” He searched for one of the words Peter had taught him. “Hallowed.” He explained that the fruit was off limits, too, even though it dangled seductively from every branch of a particularly beguiling tree. “The knowledge of the universe is in the branches. Forbidden.”
Evelyn got the gist that to enter this sacred space and pluck from the tree would surely unleash dreadful retribution.
Time played out differently here as it seemed to flow in circles instead of the measured march toward a plotted destination. Every new day brought incredible things to discover within the overwhelming beauty of this enchanted region. There was an abundance of serene wild-life, and the creatures showed no fear of humans.
The absence of mosquitoes, biting flies, and other airborne annoyances that plagued them back home convinced Peter to cast his towel aside and embrace the nudist lifestyle. Peter noticed a renewed surge of vigor and stamina he’d not known since his carefree days of childhood, and his hair had grown thick and dark.
While he was having the time of his life, Evelyn sank into despair. She wondered if Peter would choose to stay behind should rescue come. Surely someone from the travel agency would come looking for them.
Paradise? Almost, but not quite. She craved her pomegranate martini lunches with friends, neighborhood gossip, morning beach runs, tennis, and clothes. She’d give anything to trade in her tattered towel for a sporty tennis outfit, and she longed for the companionship of her well-connected friends. Marnie, her friend and doubles partner, must be wondering why she’d been absent from their tennis tournament. Surely Marnie would launch an investigation to find her.
The police will be alerted, Evelyn thought.
Her mood lightened as she realized the authorities would certainly question neighbors, Peter’s coworkers, club members, and anyone who knew them. They were bound to discover a large sum of money Peter had paid to Timeshares Travel Agency, the last people to have contact with Peter before he disappeared. The travel agency must have a way to retrieve those trapped in another time without a transporting device.
After all, they were liable for this epic screwup, and their business was bound to suffer if they “lost” customers.
While Evelyn contemplated her plight, she heard the soft throaty call of an exquisite heron that was wading in the reeds in search of a mate. Iridescent dragonflies skimmed the surface of the clear water where Evelyn knelt for a drink. Absorbed in self pity, she splashed water on her tear-stained face and was astonished by her young reflection.
The crow’s feet and creases had vanished, and her short spiky gray hair was the color of glowing copper. She felt her lithe, thin body burst with the energy of a teenager. The road map of blue spider veins on her thighs had vanished. She peered once more into the water, not believing her eyes.
Maybe it wasn’t too late to save their marriage! Surely Peter had noticed her transformation.
What Peter had noticed was the other female.
Pain seared Evelyn’s heart as she observed him stealing glances at the beautiful young woman who was unaware of being watched.
Peter no longer seemed interested in returning home. In fact, he had grown accustomed to the quiet splendor of this sequestered place.
Early one morning while sitting under a coconut palm, Evelyn decided that when rescuers came, she would leave him here. This would save her the cost and humiliation of a sensational divorce. She’d simply tell friends that Peter was working overseas for an extended period, which could buy her time to plan a plausible story for his disappearance.
As the tension mounted between her and Peter, Evelyn noticed that the other woman was growing quite irritable toward her man. Busy brooding about the state of her life, Evelyn failed to notice the kind, handsome, seemingly flawless man who stole glimpses of her whenever possible.
While Evelyn gathered figs and mushrooms one day in a shady glen, she discovered Peter and the other woman; a crystal pond reflected them hand-in-hand and deep in whispered conversation. Evelyn crept closer to hear her husband regaling his enthusiastic subject with tales of Chicago and all its wonders.
You’d think he was the most powerful man in the world the way he’s going on, thought his furious wife. It sickened Evelyn to see the simpering female hang on every word uttered by that philandering old goat.
Her stomach churned as she listened to Peter. He promised his new trophy it would be no time at all before he had them back in Lake Forest. His new woman sat spellbound by the incredible places he described—theaters, restaurants, yachts, as well as maids and room service. Their new life together would be completed by a couple of children to fill the immense lakeshore home.
Evelyn’s fingers closed around a rock. One swift blow to the temple ought to do it, she thought. One blow, and . . . wait. If Peter is talking about Chicago, he must have found a way to get back home. And it was evident he planned to take his new conquest back with him while he left his wife behind.
Evelyn had planned to leave Peter here when the Timeshares folks finally showed up. Now it seemed Peter had a similar idea.
Evelyn’s mind spun. If she wanted to be rescued she would have to stalk the two from the shadows to stay close. If the other woman returned with them, so be it. Out with the old and in with the new, huh? Let her spend a Chicago winter in that outfit, Evelyn mused.
She quietly pursued them, creeping along at a generous distance until night fell. It seemed like hours before the two stopped to curl into each other’s arms under the protection of a sprawling tree.
Bone tired, Evelyn crouched behind a nearby thicket, worried that Peter suspected he was being trailed. He had periodically stopped suddenly to look behind him. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream as the smooth scales of something long slithered across her bare ankle. A snake? She looked, but couldn’t see it. Eventually, the distant rhythm of her husband’s measured snores lulled her to sleep.
Evelyn woke, encapsulated in the gray mist that hung heavy as damp gauze. To her horror, Peter had vanished—along with his prize. She frantically retraced her steps to the crystal pool, terrified they would leave without her.
The earth quaked beneath her feet and thunder boomed, nearly felling her. Was the nearby mountain about to explode? The morning sky darkened and a deathly silence closed around her. Birdsong, animal chatter, croaks—all the natural sounds she’d grown used to hearing were replaced by an ominous, eerie stillness. She shuddered as a chill wove its way up her spine.
Suddenly Evelyn knew where her husband had gone.
She raced toward the middle of the garden, practically running into the abandoned man who pounded up beside her. They halted before a barrier of thick blue flames that surrounded the forbidden tree. Evelyn could barely see Peter and his new woman through the blue light.
Shards of white-hot lightening burst from the sky while Peter and his woman shook behind two leaves the size of elephant ears. A golden piece of fruit lay at their feet, bearing two sets of bite marks. A heartbeat later, the couple vanished.
The flames disappeared, and in their place stood a radiant angel brandishing a flaming sword.
“The violators have been banished from paradise!” the angel announced. Then he, too, was gone.
Evelyn felt a soft touch on her bare shoulder.
She turned to meet the kind sapphire eyes of the man left behind. Held by his magnificent gaze, she felt their unexpected connection and instantly realized everything that had been missing from her life.
Evelyn no longer yearned for status that came from club presidencies and committee memberships, vacations to Monaco or cruises on expensive yachts.
In that moment she glimpsed her future with him and quickly bid farewell to her former life—along with her towel.
Tenderly, hand-in-hand, they made their way back to his hut.
After a delicious breakfast of fresh papaya and fish grilled over coconut shells, Evelyn studied the place and pondered how best to remodel it while her new mate sought a way to permanently rid paradise of that damn snake.
UNSOLVED HISTORIES
Greg Cox
The damp, foggy weather reminded her of Seattle.
The gaslights and hansom cabs did not.
“Welcome to the West End of London, heart of the city’s flourishing theater district,” the tour guide announced. Kenneth Ramsey’s bristling red muttonchops and thick walrus mustache fit the era perfectly, as did his formal black attire, white tie, and top hat. A gilded watch chain dangled from his vest pocket. His plummy British accent certainly sounded authentic. “Home to Henry Irving, Ellen Terry, Oscar Wilde, and other luminaries of the Victorian stage.”
His lips barely moved as he subvocalized into the miniaturized microphone concealed in his impeccably knotted silk tie. His spiel was instantly transmitted to tiny receivers discreetly hidden in the ears of the small party of time tourists surrounding him on the sidewalk in front of the legendary Lyceum Theatre. Eager theatergoers dressed to the nines milled past them, necessitating such technological legerdemain. It wouldn’t do for the natives of this bygone age to overhear them.
Pretty slick, Celeste thought. Timeshares seemed to have thought of everything. Her earpiece itched, however, and she resisted an urge to fiddle with it. She also felt slightly queasy, apparently a routine side effect of temporal dislocation. Ramsey had assured her the timesickness would pass. It had better. I have big plans for this evening, and they don’t involve me puking all over the nineteenth century.
She contemplated her fellow tourists, who included a middle-aged couple from Ohio, their bored-looking teenage son, and a somewhat nerdy-looking young man wearing a deerstalker cap in emulation of his idol, Sherlock Holmes. All were dressed in formal period attire, provided by Timeshares for a nominal fee. Their package deal included three nights in Victorian England, including meals, accommodations in a luxury hotel, and entertainment. Even as a group excursion, it was a pricy trip, but if everything went according to her plan, it would pay off big time.
Or so Celeste hoped.
For now, though, she just needed to play along and pretend to be merely another time-traveling sightseer. A slender woman pushing forty, she found her elaborate Victorian getup less comfortable than her usual sweatpants and T-shirt. Along with the others, she took in the deliciously old-time atmosphere, gawking openly like out of towners. Horse-drawn carriages disgorged a steady stream of elegantly bedecked gentlemen and ladies who braved the drizzly autumn weather for a night at the theater. Flower girls, straight out of My Fair Lady, hawked posies to their betters. Liveried coachmen held open doors. Mist fogged the spacious avenue, adding a nostalgic haze to the scene. The lambent glow of the gaslights shone through fog like fairy nimbuses. Towering marble columns supported the Lyceum’s imposing portico. A hubbub of voices competed with the clop clop of the horse’s hooves. A stocky bearded Irishman stood atop the steps leading to the Lyceum’s grand entrance, fulsomely greeting each dignitary. Celeste realized with a start that it was Bram Stoker, the theater’s acting manager. Had he written Dracula yet? No, that was still nine years away . . .
“I can’t believe it,” half of the married couple murmured in awe. What was his name again? Brian? Ryan? He hesitantly touched the base of a nearby streetlight, as though expecting it to pop like a soap bubble upon contact. “It’s so real.”
“It is real,” Ramsey insisted. “This is no theme park or VR simulation. It’s actually November 8, 1888.” He rapped a marble column with his knuckles. “You’re really in London during the reign of Queen Victoria, when the sun never set on the British Empire.” The fading light belied his words. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
The fanboy in the deerstalker hat raised his hand. “Aren’t the Jack the Ripper murders going on now?” Watery eyes gleamed with excitement. “I know it’s not on the itinerary, but any chance we can squeeze in a trip to Whitechapel?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Moskowitz,” Ramsey replied. “The East End of London is too dangerous at this point in history. Never mind the Ripper; nineteenth-century Whitechapel is a lawless slum where violent crime is commonplace. Maybe someday, if there’s sufficient demand, Timeshares can figure out a way to ensure our clientele’s safety on such an excursion. But for now liability and insurance issues preclude any detours to the bad part of town.”
“Oh,” Moskowitz said, obviously disappointed. The teenager, whom had visibly perked up at the mention of the grisly murders, slipped back into sullen adolescence. Moskowitz dabbed at a runny nose with a monogrammed silk handkerchief. “Darn allergies,” he muttered. “This fog is wreaking havoc with my sinuses.” He blew his nose loudly. “You sure we can’t sneak in just a peek at the Ripper’s hunting grounds? I promise not to sue anybody.”
“Sorry,” Ramsey demurred. “It’s out of my hands.”
Celeste repressed a sigh of relief. She had her own plans regarding the Ripper, and she didn’t want any amateur sleuths or murder buffs horning in on them. There was too much at stake. Namely, my career.
The tour guide went back to hyping tonight’s activities. “Still, if it’s chills and thrills you’re after, I think we can oblige you with some of the fictional variety.” He gestured grandly at the ornate theater. “Tonight we have front row seats to Jekyll and Hyde, starring the great Victorian actor Richard Mansfield. This celebrated production, based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s immortal classic, has been playing to sold-out audiences for months now. Believe me, it took no little effort to secure some tickets, but at Timeshares we spare no expense to make your vacations literally historic.”
And charge an arm and a leg for it, too, Celeste thought. But it would be worth the expense if she succeeded in what she had really signed onto this tour for. Forget Richard Mansfield, Jekyll and Hyde, and the rest of this whole “Gaslight & Greasepaint” enterprise. She was out to solve one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries.
Who was Jack the Ripper?
The show, and Mansfield’s performance, proved entertaining enough. Despite her impatience to get down to business, she had almost been disappointed when the cast took their final curtain calls.
Almost.
Big Ben tolled midnight as she gratefully shed her cumbersome Victorian finery in the privacy of the hotel room Timeshares had booked for her at the Carlton. In theory, the rest of the tour party had retired for the night in anticipation of tomorrow’s busy itinerary, which included a matinee showing of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Yeoman of the Guard with the original cast. With any luck, she’d know the Ripper’s identity by then and be fast on her way to fame and fortune.
Corset, bustle, stays, and petticoats hit the floor. On went the men’s attire she had stowed in a hidden compartment in her luggage. A dark Ulster coat helped disguise her already boyish figure. She tucked her short blond curls under a bowler hat. Chances were it would be easier—not to mention safer—to navigate the sordid back alleys of Whitechapel as a man. And the trousers would be lot easier to run in if something went amiss. Ramsey had not been exaggerating when he’d described the East End as the most dangerous part of London, and she was heading right into its most murderous depths.
Did she really want to do this?
Now that the moment was at hand, second thoughts assailed her. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. Her timesickness had passed, just as Ramsey had promised, but her stomach was still tied up in knots. She shivered at the prospect of venturing out into the foggy night on her own.
What other choice do I have? Sales of her true-crime books had been slipping for years now; royalties and downloads were drying up. Not that it was her fault. Could she help it if there were no truly great murder mysteries in her own time, when most any crime could be solved by matching DNA samples? Where was the drama in that? There were times she wanted to travel back in time just to kick Watson and Crick in their double helixes.
Thank heaven there were still great crimes—and great criminals—lurking in the past. Jack the Ripper was her ticket back to the top of the bestseller list, provided Timeshares didn’t get wind of what she was up to and pull the plug on tonight’s expedition. Fortunately, she had been able to book the tour under her real name, Celeste Jordan, instead of her pen name, Jordan Pinkerton, so as to avoid raising any red flags with the time-travel agency. If all went well, she could return to the twenty-first century with the Ripper’s true identity and no one would be the wiser—until her new book went on sale.
It was the perfect scheme, as long as she didn’t lose her nerve.
“No guts, no glory.” She had come too far, geographically and chronologically, to turn back now. Tucking an umbrella under her arm, she took a moment to inspect her disguise in a full-length mirror. “Not bad.” In the murky gaslight and fog, she would probably pass as a man. “Whitechapel, here I come.”
The East End was even worse than she had imagined. Only a short carriage ride had separated her ritzy accommodations from Whitechapel, yet she might as well as have taken a starship to another world. Celeste had memorized every book ever written about the Ripper and knew just how bad this neighborhood was supposed to be in Queen Victoria’s time, but it was one thing to read about the squalid conditions online, in the comfort of her air-conditioned condo in Seattle, and something else altogether to experience it for real.
