could almost hear dramatic music in the background and waited for a crazed Johnny Depp to pop out at any moment, blood-covered straight razor in hand and a skanky Helena Bonham Carter in tow.
Shoving away the gory Sweeny Todd mental images, I sat back in the cab and tried to get comfortable while I mulled over the message the constable had delivered earlier. My “uncle” Ian had been called away on official business and was unable to come around to pick me up in person. Would I mind meeting him at the Leman Street Police station at my “earliest convenience”? Yeah, I minded all right, but did I have a choice? Not likely seeing as how he’d included a five pound note to pay for the fare with a lot left over. I guessed the cash was like the “poor relation” handouts my mom wrote for some of her characters.
Five bucks (or was it ten here in England?) wasn’t much to me but then back in this time it was probably quite the generous gift. One I imagined I’d have to pay back just the way I had to pay back the parents for allowance advances back when I had that paper route. Before I became the “problem child.”
Wonderful. Was I gonna be chucking papers for a living? Was it illegal to do some street hustling back here? Well, I figured I’d find out soon enough. A frigging horse passing us took a dump and I covered my face again. I wondered what Ian’s official business was this early. Oh, wait. The body.
The first non-official victim had been found, hadn’t she? Minnie, Maria—Martha. Martha Tabram. Had the Ripper done it? Would he be lurking in any crowd of onlookers like the arsonist my real uncle had rounded up? The dumbass liked watching his handy work so he always stood as close to the fire trucks as he could. That’s how they busted him; one of the firemen had transferred stations and recognized the guy from a couple other fires across the city. Would Jack the Ripper be stupid enough to stand at the murder scenes, grabbing himself because killing got him off?
I didn’t know about that, but I knew I had a more immediate problem. Doctor Trambley’s snarky remark about my memory probably meant Ian would be overflowing with questions.
Questions I had damn well better B.S. some believable answers to.
Damn.
I leaned my head back and tried to think. Mom had dug some letters out of the old trunk that had held Ian’s journal. I’d been grounded—again— and part of my punishment was to help clear the attic. Of all the punishments, it had to be the worst because Mom was the easily distracted type when it came to things that tripped her writerly “what if” button. She’d found the journal and read it and the letters aloud, her eyes slowly getting that gleam that said I haz a plot bunny!
I was stuck in that musty, stuffy attic from the time Dad went to work until he came home—after doing four hours of overtime. I’d been bored spitless, but I had to admit I almost identified with dad’s ancestor M.J.
The few letters he’d left behind to his aunt and uncle were filled with old time snark and imaginative descriptions. Stories about the people he’d met and the adventures he’d had after skipping town when his mother died. As Mom pointed out—a crap-ton of times that endless day— M.J. and I both had a talent for making interesting, not always law abiding friends and scheming to make the best of any situation.
By the time Mom ran through it all over again to Dad at dinner I sort of felt I’d have liked to meet this cousin who was so much like me. I just hoped to God he didn’t decide to surface here anytime soon.
He could, though. The last letter we had was dated 1887. M.J. said he’d met some “important people” in Pittsburgh and that things were going to change for him. Hopefully, that didn’t include any trips to London in August of 1888.
***
A cop at the police station directed me to where Ian was. I’d been right; he was at the murder scene in George Yard the scene of the
Shoving away the gory Sweeny Todd mental images, I sat back in the cab and tried to get comfortable while I mulled over the message the constable had delivered earlier. My “uncle” Ian had been called away on official business and was unable to come around to pick me up in person. Would I mind meeting him at the Leman Street Police station at my “earliest convenience”? Yeah, I minded all right, but did I have a choice? Not likely seeing as how he’d included a five pound note to pay for the fare with a lot left over. I guessed the cash was like the “poor relation” handouts my mom wrote for some of her characters.
Five bucks (or was it ten here in England?) wasn’t much to me but then back in this time it was probably quite the generous gift. One I imagined I’d have to pay back just the way I had to pay back the parents for allowance advances back when I had that paper route. Before I became the “problem child.”
Wonderful. Was I gonna be chucking papers for a living? Was it illegal to do some street hustling back here? Well, I figured I’d find out soon enough. A frigging horse passing us took a dump and I covered my face again. I wondered what Ian’s official business was this early. Oh, wait. The body.
The first non-official victim had been found, hadn’t she? Minnie, Maria—Martha. Martha Tabram. Had the Ripper done it? Would he be lurking in any crowd of onlookers like the arsonist my real uncle had rounded up? The dumbass liked watching his handy work so he always stood as close to the fire trucks as he could. That’s how they busted him; one of the firemen had transferred stations and recognized the guy from a couple other fires across the city. Would Jack the Ripper be stupid enough to stand at the murder scenes, grabbing himself because killing got him off?
I didn’t know about that, but I knew I had a more immediate problem. Doctor Trambley’s snarky remark about my memory probably meant Ian would be overflowing with questions.
Questions I had damn well better B.S. some believable answers to.
Damn.
I leaned my head back and tried to think. Mom had dug some letters out of the old trunk that had held Ian’s journal. I’d been grounded—again— and part of my punishment was to help clear the attic. Of all the punishments, it had to be the worst because Mom was the easily distracted type when it came to things that tripped her writerly “what if” button. She’d found the journal and read it and the letters aloud, her eyes slowly getting that gleam that said I haz a plot bunny!
I was stuck in that musty, stuffy attic from the time Dad went to work until he came home—after doing four hours of overtime. I’d been bored spitless, but I had to admit I almost identified with dad’s ancestor M.J.
The few letters he’d left behind to his aunt and uncle were filled with old time snark and imaginative descriptions. Stories about the people he’d met and the adventures he’d had after skipping town when his mother died. As Mom pointed out—a crap-ton of times that endless day— M.J. and I both had a talent for making interesting, not always law abiding friends and scheming to make the best of any situation.
By the time Mom ran through it all over again to Dad at dinner I sort of felt I’d have liked to meet this cousin who was so much like me. I just hoped to God he didn’t decide to surface here anytime soon.
He could, though. The last letter we had was dated 1887. M.J. said he’d met some “important people” in Pittsburgh and that things were going to change for him. Hopefully, that didn’t include any trips to London in August of 1888.
***
A cop at the police station directed me to where Ian was. I’d been right; he was at the murder scene in George Yard the scene of the
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