A Rip Through Time(55)

I need to figure out what else to do if it goes to hell. I have Catriona’s money. I trust Isla will pay my back wages when I leave. I also have Catriona’s face, which should get me a position somewhere.

I will survive. I repeat that mantra so much I start humming the disco tune. It’s all I can do. That and keep from attracting attention. At first, I pace the street, only to be reminded there’s a reason sex workers are also known as streetwalkers. I move on a little farther and attempt to install myself at the mouth of an alley, but every time I look away from it, the hairs on my neck prickle, as if a would-be attacker is creeping up behind me. There’s no one there, and yet I cannot shake the feeling, so I move out into the light again.

I have now reached for my phone at least a dozen times. I want to look busy, and that’s always the answer. Pull out my phone and play a few rounds of solitaire or surf the news. Without that, I’m not sure how to seem busy. Then I find one of those pamphlets tucked into the pocket of Catriona’s coat. It’s an old one, telling the story of a horrific murder from four years ago, when a serving girl was attacked in her workplace, her throat slit and her body trampled by her killer.

My detective brain pounces on this. If Catriona kept the pamphlet, there must be a link between her and the crime. Clearly, she’s related to the poor woman in the tale, and she’s vowed revenge on the killer and keeps this in her pocket to remind her of her eternal quest.

Yeah, that would make a whole lot more sense if the pamphlet doesn’t say that the guy had been caught right away and later executed. While there’s a chance it’s significant, I have a feeling Catriona used it for exactly the same purpose I do: distraction.

I stand in the moonlight and pretend to read the paper, over and over, until I’ve memorized the damn thing.

If I get any insight from that pamphlet, it’s into the sort of story Victorians are willing to shell out a penny to read. The horrific broad-daylight murder of a young woman, killed because she dared criticize a man. According to the pamphlet, on hearing the news of the girl’s death, her mother went mad and had to be committed to an asylum.

“You’d best not have pulled me from my tea for nothing, kitty-cat.”

I glance up to see Davina bearing down on me.

“I had the best seat in the house, and I’ll have lost it now.” She puts out a hand. “Make it worth my while, or I’m nipping back inside.”

I hold up a sovereign, and her eyes gleam.

“Well, well, found your purse, did you?”

“I found this. It’s all I’ve got, and it will buy me twenty minutes of your time, right?”

“Depends on what you’re looking for. I don’t come cheap.”

“All I need is answers.” I glance up and down the dim, narrow road. “May we go somewhere else to talk?”

Her laugh rings out, echoing off the stonework. “Do you think me daft, kitty-cat? No, we’ll talk right here, and every minute you delay is a minute off your time.”

I hand over the coin.

She pulls out a tarnished pocket watch. “You have fifteen minutes left.”

“What? I paid for—”

“Every second you annoy me costs you a minute. You’re down to fourteen.”

“I need to know where I pawn my wares. I sold something I ought not to have taken, and my mistress demands its return.”

She lets out a cackle. “The kitty got caught stealing the cream, did she?” She holds up the gold coin, flipping it between her fingers. “Perhaps I did sell myself too cheap.”

I should have known better than to admit vulnerability. No honor among thieves. How often had I relied on that to turn one suspect against another?

“It’s not as dire as all that,” I say. “I am already making plans to move on to a new position. To do it now would be mere inconvenience. But, yes, I’d like to return what I took if I can.”

“Uncle Dover’s,” she says. “The old man gives you extra because he likes the looks of you.”

I glance around. “Where would I find his shop?”

She sighs, points, and machine-guns directions.

“Thank you,” I say. “Now, I know I’ve used some of my credit, but I’m hoping you can tell me more about what I was doing the night I was attacked.”

She puts out a hand.

I nod at her watch. “I have eight minutes remaining.”

“Some information costs more than others. That bit was valuable to you, wasn’t it?”

Her eyes glitter as she smirks at me.

I want information on Catriona. I might need it, if solving her murder would get me home again. But the only money I have on me is for the locket. I calculate quickly. I have two pounds left. Nine more in my room—I wasn’t foolish enough to bring it all to this neighborhood. The pawnshop is almost certainly closed. I could pay Davina for more information and then return in the morning to buy the locket.

What if Isla kicks me out before that? What if I can’t get the locket back and she kicks me out after that? Either way, I’ll need every penny I can get.

I’m gambling. Betting on getting the locket and winning Isla’s forbearance versus betting that Davina’s information will lead to Catriona’s attacker, which might—based on nothing but a faint hope—get me back home. One path is straightforward; the other winds and bends and may lead off a sheer cliff.