Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(115)

He seemed surprised at her knowledge. “No, I don’t,” he said. “No real point.” He mussed up his hair and stuck on the slouch cap. He looked disreputable. “Stop fretting. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Well, that’s at least one of you,” Mr. Spider said, peering into her boss’ luggage. He jumped out of the way as Morrisey snapped it shut and stashed it by the couch. “Tidy, isn’t he?”

Overly.

They retraced some of their route through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. While Morrisey was methodically cataloguing streets and sights, she was listening to the ebb and flow of conversations.

“The smell is so strong here,” he remarked, his nose wrinkling in spite of himself. “I knew it would be bad, but…” Just then, his attention was drawn to a constable standing on the other side of the street.



“They’re all over the place. Still hunting the Ripper,” she explained. Pity they never catch him.

“I’ve read about all this and seen some of the photographs, but nothing prepares you for the reality,” he mused, turning in a full circle to get a panorama.

“No. Nothing can.”

“How do you cope?” he asked suddenly. “One moment you’re there, and then you’re here. There is such a difference between the two worlds.”

She wondered if he’d understand. “That’s part of the thrill. Here you have to live by your wits. At home…” She shrugged. “I just run afoul of the rules all the time.”

He turned cocky. “So do I. I’m a wanted man now,” he said in a low voice. “I find that amusing.”

Until they throw your butt in jail.

A voice called out to them. Cynda turned, knowing it sounded familiar. A bootblack. A young one.

“Miss Jacynda!” the boy cried. He grinned widely as she worked on his name. His face was grubby, like most of them, but there was a brightness to his eyes that she recognized.

“Hello there, how have you been?” she said, buying time. A young kid about twelve. As he moved forward toward her, she noted the limp. That helped.

“I’m right fine.” He peered up at her quizzically. “How ’bout you?”

“I’m much better.” He opened his mouth to help her out, but she held up a hand. “Let me do it.” Yes, that’s it. “David Edward Butler.”

He cheered and broke out in a smile. “You remember me! You didn’t the last time.” Then he gave Morrisey a curious look. “Who’s this gent?”

“Davy, this is Mr. Morrisey.”

“Ah, yes.” Morrisey offered a hand, and the two of them shook. “You are the son of Dr. Montrose’s housekeeper.”



“Right you are! Pleased to meet you, sir.” Then David peered down at her companion’s boots and shook his head in mock despair. Cynda winked at her boss and he took the hint. As Davy applied his talents, she used the opportunity to solicit the kid’s street knowledge

“We’re looking for a missing Irish girl. About sixteen or so. Her name’s Fiona. We think she’s somewhere in Whitechapel.”

“What does she look like?” Davy asked, applying the polish.

Cynda did as best she could with what Flaherty had told her.

Davy’s eyes rose from his work. “Lots of Irish girls in Whitechapel.”

“I know. I just thought I’d tell you in case you hear something.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Do it carefully,” Morrisey warned. “There are people who won’t want her found. It might be dangerous.”

“I’ll be careful.” Davy signaled for him to switch feet. Then he looked up again, frowning. “You sound posh, but your clothes aren’t. You slummin’?”

It was Morrisey’s turn to wink. “Something like that.”

“Ah, well, that’s all right then.” The kid went back to work with a vengeance.

A block after they left Davy behind, Cynda pointed toward a puddle of muddy water. Before she could explain, Morrisey walked through it to obscure some of the bootblack’s handiwork, which was clearly out of place with his garb.

“Quick study,” the spider observed from her shoulder.

Too quick. Those kind usually get in trouble.

It took her some time to relax. It was bad enough she was reacquainting herself with 1888, but having a beginner in tow just made it harder. She fretted about every seedy character who eyed them, the thick traffic, the pickpockets.

“I’m fine,” her companion said. “Stop worrying.”

“I’ll try.”

With each pub, dining hall, and street market they visited, she felt herself slipping back into the rhythm of Victorian London. It felt right. Every now and then she’d whisper some bit of advice to Morrisey and he’d nod in response. He rarely asked questions, but his attention remained sharply focused. They’d chatted with newspaper boys, costermongers, a couple of whores, a butcher, and a girl selling milk. Morrisey hadn’t complained once, not about the throng of people or their lack of bathing habits. By now he should be begging for fresh air.



Points for style, boss.

The strangest thing was the contented look on his face. She hadn’t expected that. “You act as if you’re enjoying yourself,” she observed.