A Love For All Time Page 4

  A long pause stretched into an awkward silence. Fast losing his patience, Mick repeatedly tapped the end of his pen against the notepad.

  “If you must know, my sister is no longer received in society,” Lettitia finally divulged. “That is why we meet surreptitiously on the days when I go to the hospital.”

  Suddenly feeling like he’d crash-landed into an episode of Downton Abbey—every red-blooded man’s nightmare—Mick had to ask the asinine follow-up: “Why is she, um, no longer received in society?”

  “My father had gone to great lengths to arrange a marriage between Emmaline and Lord Wortham. While my mother is of noble birth, my father’s antecedents are not nearly so exalted. Although between my sister’s great beauty and my father’s great fortune, such an impediment hardly mattered. At least it wouldn’t have mattered if my sister had shared our father’s lofty ambitions. Emmaline, however, refused to marry a man that she did not love.”

  “So I take it that Emmaline broke off her engagement to this Lord Wortham fellow?”

  The question elicited another lengthy silence during which time Lettitia began to nervously fiddle with a button on one of her gloves.

  Mick silently counted to ten then repeated the question.

  “It pains me to confess that my sister ran off with the Welsh stable master,” Lettitia murmured bleakly, unable to look him in the eye. “In retaliation, my father cut Emmaline off without a cent. She was then forced to… to—” Pausing mid-sentence, Lettitia wiped a wayward tear with a gloved finger.

  “Okay, I’ve got enough details for now,” Mick said abruptly, unnerved by Lettitia’s agonized expression. He didn’t do distraught women. At least not well. Stuffing the notebook into his pocket, he rose to his feet. “You can give me a list of addresses later.”

  After grudgingly paying for his two drinks, Lettitia beat a hasty retreat from the pub.

  Mick caught up to her a few moments later. “I need to speak to your good pal Madame Mazursky. This time portal thing is—” Suddenly noticing a skinny kid standing a few feet away hawking newspapers, he momentarily lost his train of thought.

  Christ Almighty, I don’t frigging believe it.

  Fishing a quarter out of his pocket, he handed it to the newsboy. Although the grimy-faced urchin eyed the coin suspiciously, he nonetheless handed Mick a newspaper dated November 4, 1888. The banner headline, set in bold, old-fashioned typeface, read: JACK THE RIPPER STILL AT LARGE.

  Chapter 3

  It wasn’t until after they were settled in the hansom cab that Lettitia belatedly wished she’d hailed a four-wheeler. To her consternation, the single-seat vehicle forced her and Detective Giovanni into close proximity, their shoulders bumping together at every rut in the road. She blamed the cramped accommodation on her companion. If Detective Giovanni’s shoulders weren’t so broad or his legs quite so long, there would have been ample room in the conveyance, an observation that caused her to suddenly take notice of the clothing that garbed his brawny physique.

  “Perhaps we should change course and first pay a visit to my Uncle Phidias’s townhouse.” She broached this somewhat indelicate topic in a tentative tone.

  The detective tore his gaze away from the hansom window. “Why? What’s at your uncle’s house?”

  She pointedly glanced at his ripped coat sleeve. “A much needed change of clothing to begin with. While you are wider through the shoulder than my uncle, I believe that, with a few alterations, we can devise more suitable attire. Also, you may wish to, er–” embarrassed, she cleared her throat– “see to your toilette.”

  “See to my what?”

  “Your toilette,” she repeated. “My uncle’s valet will shave you and trim your hair.”

  His shoulders shook with a barely concealed mirth. “Sounds like somebody is embarrassed to be seen with an unshaven, shaggy man from the future.”

  Bewildered by the remark, Lettitia took his measure. In the unforgiving morning light, she saw that Detective Giovanni still had a goodly amount of dark hair mixed in with the glimmering silver strands. While she wasn’t particularly enamored with his uncouth mannerisms, she could not deny that he was a breathtakingly handsome man. If she was embarrassed to be in his company, it was not for the reason that he imagined.

  Her fellow passenger ran a hand over a stubbled cheek. “While I could use a shave, that and the clothes will have to wait. I first need to speak to your pal Madame Mazursky. Assuming, of course, that meets with Your Highness’s approval.”

  Choosing to ignore the barb, Lettitia wordlessly nodded. She did not wish to engage in yet another argument.

  Several minutes passed before Detective Giovanni nudged her with his elbow, drawing her attention to the newspaper that he’d purchased. “You said that your sister was last seen three months ago in Whitechapel. According to the paper, that’s when the first Ripper murder took place. Have you, um—” He cleared his throat. Not once, but twice. Then, with his countenance noticeably subdued, he said, “Hell, I don’t like to bring this up, but have you considered the possibility that your sister had a run-in with Jack the Ripper?”

  Rather than answer, Lettitia turned her head and stared out the window. As the hansom cab rattled along the cobbled stretch of India Road, the coal-blackened, dilapidated store fronts of Whitechapel passed in a lurid kaleidoscope. The crowded pavements teemed with the poverty-stricken masses that inhabited the nearby tenements. Here in these ramshackle slums, disease, drunkenness, and callous brutality were all woven into the very fabric of life.

  And it was here, on these very streets, that Jack the Ripper had crowned himself the Prince of Darkness.

  “Emmaline did not fall victim to the Ripper’s mania,” she said at last, turning to face him.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because my sister vanished without a trace. As you have no doubt gleaned from the article, each of the Ripper’s victims was discovered very soon after they were murdered.”

  “Point taken,” the detective conceded with a nod. “And the fact that all of the Ripper’s victims are prostitutes would also eliminate your sister.”

  As the hansom rolled past the India Road Mission, Lettitia noticed the pitiful gaggle of women standing in line for their soup rations. Unfortunates, they were forced to sell their bodies to earn their keep. It was said that over a thousand of them roamed the streets of Whitechapel. Many hated their lot in life. Many were ashamed of what they’d become. And a few embraced their circumstance with a depraved bravado.

  “There is something that I neglected to tell you,” she said hesitantly, too mortified to meet Detective Giovanni’s perceptive gaze. “I did not think that it had a bearing on… on the matter at hand.” She paused, uncertain how exactly to phrase her confession.

  “Whatever it is that you have to say, just spit it out. In my line of work, I’ve heard it all.”

  No doubt that was true. But it didn’t make her shameful admission any easier to make.

  “My sister Emmaline is… is one of the unfortunate women of Whitechapel. After my father cut off her funds, she… she had no other way to support herself. I tried to give her money, but—” Lettitia broke off in mid-sentence, having revealed more than she’d intended. She certainly wasn’t going to confess to Detective Giovanni—or anyone for that matter—that the reason why Emmaline had refused her offer of financial assistance was because she exalted in the newfound power that she had over men.

  If Detective Giovanni was surprised by the revelation, he gave no indication. “I take it that ‘unfortunate’ is a polite word for prostitute?”

  Lettitia nodded, too embarrassed to speak.

  “Well, that certainly goes a long way in explaining why no one but you gives a damn about Emmaline’s disappearance,” the detective correctly deduced. Then, with a befuddled look on his face, he said, “I thought you told me that she had an affair with some stable guy.”

  “I said that she ran off with the stable master. There is a difference. I
believe that Emmaline simply used the Welshman to— Good heavens!”

  Caught unaware when the hansom cab veered to overtake a country wain loaded with timber, Lettitia was unceremoniously flung forward.

  Possessed of quick reflexes, Detective Giovanni grabbed her by the waist just before she was catapulted from the cab.

  “Whoa. That was a close one.”

  “Indeed,” Lettitia murmured, unnerved to find herself pressed against his chest. Feeling the steady pound of his heart against her cheek, she experienced a strange, innervating jolt that started at the base of her spine and ended at her throbbing temples. Caught in the throes of what could only be described as a feverish sort of tumult, it seemed as though the earth was spinning much too quickly. As if she were seized by a breathless sort of wild excitement in which time and place had suddenly lost all meaning.

  When, in the next instant, she belatedly realized that her hand had found purchase near the juncture of Detective Giovanni’s upper thighs, she shrieked.

  “Yeah, I know. I have that effect on the ladies,” the detective remarked as Lettitia hastily scooted to her side of the tufted leather seat.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she denied, a little too vehemently. “I was merely startled to find myself pressed so… so— Forgive me. It was an accident, I can assure you.”

  Just then, mercifully, the hansom arrived at their destination. The driver, seated above the cab, released the lever, and the doors swung open with a well-oiled thud.

  As Lettitia fumbled in her reticule for the three-shillings fare, Detective Giovanni nimbly leapt to the ground. Then, proving himself a true contrarian, he assisted her from the cab.

  As they approached Madame Mazursky’s residence, Detective Giovanni leaned close to her and said, “Your headgear got knocked off-kilter.” Without asking her permission, he made a slight adjustment to her brimless toque. “There. That’s much better.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, too startled to chastise him for having taken the brazen liberty.

  Cocking his head to one side, the detective appraised his handiwork. “You know, with all the ribbons and feathers, I’d be worried that some bird might decide to build a nest in that thing.”

  “Really, sir!” Turning her back on him, Lettitia lifted the heavy, bronze knocker. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a dark-skinned man garbed in an orange silk tunic.

  “Miss Merryweather and Detective Giovanni are here to see Madame Mazursky,” Lettitia said, handing her card to him.

  The Indian butler wordlessly nodded his turbaned head as he motioned them into the foyer.

  “Jeez, this place looks like the inside of Jeannie’s bottle,” Detective Giovanni marveled in an awestruck tone of voice.

  Although his argot was unintelligible, Lettitia assumed that he referred to the eclectic furnishings. On a prior visit, she’d been apprised that the wall coverings were from Persia, the carpet from Afghanistan, the stone floor beneath it from a twelfth-century Norman chapel, and the elaborate candelabra on the credenza had once illuminated a Turkish harem.

  “Madame will now see you,” the butler informed them before leading the way down a lavishly appointed hallway.

  Craning his head, the detective scrutinized a curio cabinet containing several African masks. “Kinda reminds me of the time we busted some Haitian gang members. They had this same voodoo crap all over the place.”

  “Really, sir!” Lettitia hissed in a lowered voice, the refrain fast becoming a familiar one. “Your opinions are best kept to yourself.”

  “Actually, it was more of an observation than an opinion.”

  “An observation completely lacking in—”

  “Detective Giovanni and Miss Merryweather,” the butler announced as he swung open a pair of gold-plated doors.

  Reclining on a divan upholstered in a turquoise-colored fabric, Madame Mazursky motioned for them to enter. As was her habit, she wore a loose tunic—a caftan, as she called it—which she’d had custom-made on one of her many trips to Cairo. Although diminutive in stature, Madame Mazursky cut an imposing figure with a head of steel-gray hair and piercing blue eyes.

  His rudeness seemed to know no bounds: Detective Giovanni pointed an index finger at the famed spiritualist. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

  Madame Mazursky patted her coiffure. “With all of this gray hair that I’ve acquired over the last fifteen years, I’m surprised that you recognize me.”

  “Welcome to the silver fox club,” Detective Giovanni chortled. Then, shaking his head, he said, “While your face is familiar, I can’t quite place you.”

  Removing a golden key from her pocket, Madame unlocked an elaborately carved ivory box that was on the table next to the divan. After rummaging through it a bit, she removed a newspaper clipping.

  “Perhaps this will jar your memory.” Rising to her feet, Madame Mazursky walked over and handed the clipping to the detective.

  From where she stood, Lettitia was able to read the headline: ROOKIE COP SAVES ENGLISH TOURIST.

  Detective Giovanni perused the article. Within moments, his umber-brown eyes opened wide, the man clearly dumbfounded.

  “Is it really you, Phoebe?”

  Smiling broadly, Madame opened her arms. “Michelangelo!”

  The newspaper clipping fluttered to the ground as the detective swooped Madame Mazursky off her velvet-clad feet and swung her into the air.

  Flabbergasted, Lettitia plucked the clipping off of the floor. Beneath the headline, there was a photograph of a much younger Michelangelo Giovanni. Indeed, fifteen years ago, he had possessed an almost Renaissance-style beauty; a beauty that over the years had been replaced with a warrior’s fierce countenance.

  At the moment, however, he was displaying an uncharacteristically boyish exuberance.

  “Jeez, Phoebe, it’s great to see you. You’re looking great,” he exclaimed, finally setting Madame Mazursky back on her feet.

  “And I have you to thank for that. Had it not been for your timely intervention, I would have most assuredly suffered a fate worse than death.”

  Two splotches of color stained the detective’s cheeks. “I was just doing my job.”

  “And you did it most gallantly, I might add. I have never forgotten the kindness that you showed an old woman. While I am an experienced time traveler, occasionally mishaps occur.”

  “Will someone kindly tell me what this is all about?” Lettitia chimed in, utterly flummoxed. Detective Giovanni had been quite adamant that he’d never met Madame Mazursky.

  Still smiling expansively, Madame Mazursky turned to Lettitia and said, “My dear, I will have you know that our Michelangelo is utterly fearless. Truly, he was like a knight of old when he rescued me from the deadly clutches of three lightfoots who were intent on stealing this–”she lifted a large, jewel-encrusted pendant off of her bosom– “the Star of Alexandria.”

  “I… I am all astonishment,” Lettitia sputtered. “You made no mention of this heroic episode when you entrusted me with the time device. You merely conveyed that during one of your sojourns through time, Detective Giovanni had vowed to assist you should you ever have need of him.”

  The detective’s jaw dropped in an almost comical manner. “I vowed to do what?”

  “Don’t you remember, Michelangelo? When you came to visit me in the hospital after the attack, you promised to do all in your power to assist me.”

  Detective Giovanni’s brows drew together. “Well, yeah, Phoebe, sure, I might have said something along those lines. But I would’ve meant it in, you know, a general sort of way. Although, come to think of it, I did show up at the hospital the following day with a social worker. But your nurse said that you’d vanished without a trace.”

  “The constraints of the time device necessitated a hasty departure,” the spiritualist replied. “Alas, seven days is the limit of any given adventure.”

  “Speaking of adventures, do you know what she did?” Detectiv
e Giovanni jerked his thumb in Lettitia’s direction. “She tricked me. That’s what she did.”

  Lettitia felt the blood rush to her face, horrified that Detective Giovanni would stoop so low as to inform Madame of her duplicitous actions. Truly, the man lacked all sense of decorum.

  “I had no choice in the matter,” Lettitia asserted, directing her remarks to Madame Mazursky. “Although I went to the police station as you directed me to, and explained the dire circumstance of my situation, Detective Giovanni refused to accompany me to the time portal.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. Did it ever occur to you, Miss High-and-Mighty, that I’m going to have a helluva time explaining to my family and friends why I disappeared from the face of the planet for a whole week? Not only is my mother expecting me for dinner tomorrow, but I promised to take my godson Tommy to the Cub Scout father/son dinner on Thursday night. And, lest I forget, I’m going to the Giants’ game this weekend with a couple of the guys from the Nine-four.”

  “Have no fear, Michelangelo. When you return to the future, it will be as if no time has passed. Didn’t Lettitia explain the workings of the time mechanism to you?”

  Detective Giovanni snorted derisively. “Are you kidding? She’s been guarding that thing like it’s the Holy freaking Grail.”

  “Lettitia, my dear, may I have the device, please?” Madame held out her hand, causing the numerous bangles on her wrist to merrily clank together.

  Fumbling with her reticule, Lettitia removed the silver disk.

  “So, how does this thing work?” Detective Giovanni inquired, his interest clearly evident.

  Madame Mazursky pressed a small lever, opening the two halves of the disk. “The magnetized fluid is calibrated to place,” she explained, pointing to one side of the disk. “Whilst the other side is calibrated to time. The magnetized fluid interacts with the emanations of the moon, creating a fused magnetic energy that, in turn, opens the time portal.”

  “The time portal is that metal fixture with the star on top of it, right?”