A Rip Through Time(67)

“Rescued him?”

“Yeah, they rescued the guy attacking me. He fled as fast as he could.”

He’s the raven killer. The one your brother and Hugh McCreadie are looking for.

I don’t say that. I’m not sure I should, because it could go so much deeper than that. I suspect he could be the guy who attacked me in my world. That I didn’t just travel through time. That I brought a twenty-first-century serial killer with me. I don’t tell her that. I’m not even sure what to do with that.

A moment later, Isla pays the bill and walks out. I take a chance on following. She hails a coach. A “hansom” as Gray called it, and as I recall from my Sherlock Holmes reading, though admittedly, teenage Mallory thought it was a British spelling of handsome and meant they were very fine cabs indeed.

I’m standing there on the sidewalk as the hansom pulls over. I hesitate. Then I follow Isla, and she doesn’t stop me. Once the coach is moving, she gazes out the window, as if trying to convince herself she is alone.

When we pass the gardens into the New Town, I clear my throat. “I’ll gather my things and not say a word to Mrs. Wallace or Alice.”

“No.”

“All right, would you like me to say goodbye? Or do you mean you’ll bring my things outside?”

“You are staying. For now. I…” She looks over. “I do not know what to make of your story. I need time to think. You will have a roof over your head until tomorrow at least.”

She pauses and her eyes narrow. “But if you truly are a police detective from the twenty-first century, why would you be trying so hard to retain a position as a housemaid? Surely, it is beneath you.”

I shrug. “I cleaned houses for a summer job one year. That’s normal in the future. Kids—teenagers—take on crappy jobs for a bit of pocket money and work experience. Never thought I’d be doing it again, but what’s the alternative? Walk into a police station and offer my professional services? I’m trying to get back home, whether that means figuring out the trick or solving Catriona’s attack or just waiting for the damn planets to align. Hopefully, it’ll happen soon. Until then, I need a roof over my head, and I’m willing to scrub floors to get it.”

“If what you claim is true, this must be very difficult for you,” she says, her voice softening. “Being separated from your family, from your world.”

“I figure I must be here for a reason, right? So there must be a way back.”

“Of course,” she says, a little too firmly. This is just as likely to be some kind of cosmic hiccup, and we both know it.

“For now, I’m focusing on the practical. I’d like to stay in my job, and I hope you’ll give me another chance. If you do, though, your brother isn’t going to be too happy about it. I got the distinct impression he’s had enough of Miss Catriona.”

“I can deal with my brother.”

She seems about to drop into her thoughts again when her head snaps up. “You’ve been assisting with Duncan’s studies. If you are a police detective…”

“Yep, that’s why I’m honestly interested. He’s doing amazing stuff. I saw how the police treat him. That’ll change. Most of us couldn’t imagine solving murders without forensics. If there’s one thing I’m actually enjoying about my Victorian experience, it’s the chance to see early police work and early forensic science in action.”

She goes quiet, deep in thought, before she inhales sharply.

“Duncan,” she murmurs. She turns to me. “Whatever you do, do not breathe a word of this to him. I don’t know if your tale is delusion or scheme or the impossible truth, but I will not be able to save your position if you try to convince him of it. He is a man of science.”

“And science can’t explain body-swapping time travel. Not even in my world.”

“Allow me to handle my brother, and whatever happens, tell him nothing of this.”





TWENTY-FOUR


When we arrive in the town house, Isla waves for me to follow her. We go all the way up to the attic. She opens the locked door I’ve presumed is for storage.

I follow her inside to find a laboratory. Shelves of boxes and jars, each meticulously labeled. There’s a tiny desk, with papers and journals piled on top. Most of the room, however, is a long table, half of it consumed by a still.

“What do you see?” she asks, waving at the apparatus.

“You’re cooking up moonshine. Cool.” I catch her eye. “Joking. That’s what it looks like to me. A moonshine still from a hillbilly-feud movie set amidst the coal mines of Civil War–era Kentucky.”

“You do realize none of that makes sense to me.”

“Yep, that’s why it’s fun to say.” I walk over and touch one of the beakers. “It looks like a way of making alcohol. Don’t ask me how it works. I got a C in chemistry.”

“You studied chemistry?”

“Not by choice. It’s part of the high-school curriculum.” I pause. “High school is the North American term. I can’t remember what they call it over here. It’s the teen years, roughly thirteen to eighteen.”

“We have the High School on Calton Hill. Duncan attended. I have heard it was used as the model for similar schools in America. You attended such an institution? Your parents must have been quite well off.”