In a hundred years’ time, he thought, I would not be able to escape so easily. There will be DNA and fingerprinting and UVwanding, not to mention cameras on every corner and in outer space. But now, in my time, once I am clear, I am gone, and none can say different who did not witness it with their own eyes.
The sun was shining here, as it would be in a century’s time, though it had a harder job busting through the smog. Garrick spotted a boy wearing the familiar red coat of the Shoe-black Brigade and hailed him.
“You! You there! What day is it?”
The boy shuffled across the street, not bothering to avoid the puddles of seeping sewage. As he came up, Garrick could see that his jacket was tattered and closer to dirty pink than red from a hundred rough launderings.
He scowled at Garrick. “Well, it ain’t Christmas Day. And you ain’t no Mr. Scrooge.”
On a normal morning Garrick would have striped the cur’s cheek with his glove, but today he was feeling charitable toward most of England.
“Yes, well spotted, you educated scamp. Now, fetch me a cab to Holborn. Hop to it and there’s a shilling in it for you.”
The boy stretched out a hand. “Shilling in advance, guv’nor.”
Garrick laughed. “In advance? You’ll be getting your payment when I see you on the backboard of my cab. As you so cleverly pointed out, I ain’t no Ebenezer Scrooge.”
As the boy hurried off, whistling the customary three-note cabbie summons, Garrick realized that he had lost his wallet in the wormhole.
No journey can be embarked on for free, he thought. Not even one through time itself. Another thought occurred to him: I hope that boy can wait for payment; I don’t like to commit murders this early in the day.
The morning was not progressing swimmingly for Riley and Chevron Savano. Just moments before Garrick’s arrival in the basement, the time-traveling pair had been swathed in rough burlap, torsos mummified by bailing twine, and manhandled up a flight of stairs.
By the time Chevie shook off the wormhole bliss, she was on her back on polished floorboards with a knee wedged to her throat. She tried to call out to Riley but could do nothing more than croak through an obstructed windpipe.
Apparently her croak was enough to arouse the ire of her captors, as one rapped her on the crown.
“Shush yer gob, miss,” he ordered. “We is tired and hungry men and not in the mood fer shenanigans.”
Chevie responded by heel-kicking her captor in the knee.
How do you like those shenanigans? she tried to say, but all that emerged was a series of grunts.
Her stricken captor howled lustily, to the great amusement of his comrades.
“Aw, Jeeves, did the maiden injure your person?” said one, the chicken-wing man by the smell of him.
“Shall I carry you to a hospital, or is you too far gone?” said another, then spat noisily to punctuate his derision.
The injured party recovered himself, cracking Chevie once more on the head. “Do we need ’em both? Malarkey might be satisfied with one to spill the beans.”
Inside his sack, Riley jerked at the mention of the name Malarkey.
Otto Malarkey? The king of the Battering Rams? How had they come into his sights?
As there was no knee on his throat, Riley spoke to the men. “Which one of you bludgers wants to tell Mr. Malarkey how you murdered his kin?”
This question was met with a moment’s silence, until Jeeves spoke. “Oh, ho! That’s a fine bluff. A man would have to admire a lie so brazen, would he not, Mr. Noble?”
Noble spoke. “Are you calling it, Jeeves? ’Cause I certainly ain’t.”
“It’s no bluff,” shouted Riley through the sacking. “Trussing us up was insult enough, but threatening our persons will land you in the river by moonlight.”
Noble whistled. “Malarkey does favor the river by moonlight for his bye-bye business.”
“There is a safe way to put the quiets on these two,” said the third man.
Riley heard the pop of a cork from a bottle, and a sharp odor cut through the dull musk of burlap.
Ether! he thought. They’re putting us under.
“Chevie!” he called. “Close yer gob.”
Jeeves cackled. “That’s wot I told her,” he said.
Riley felt a dampness spread across his face as the liquid anesthetic seeped through the material. He held his breath until one of the men jabbed him below the rib cage, forcing a sharp intake of etherized air.
I pray that Garrick is not already here or we’ll never wake up, was the last thought he had before his mind sank down like a stone dropped into the midnight Thames.
Riley did survive to wake up, but before he opened his eyes to whatever new dreadfulness awaited them, he spent a moment reexperiencing his visions from the wormhole.
My family lived in Brighton, where Father was in the FBI. Mother was Irish and the most beautiful lady I have ever seen. My mate Ginger is in actuality my own half brother, Tom. Ma and Pa were slaughtered for money by Albert Garrick. But who shelled out for the job? And was my own pa from the future? How do these strands tie together? Where is Tom now?
These were big bites of information to swallow in one gulp. Everything he had taken for gospel was a falsehood spooned into his ear by Garrick.
Riley opened his eyes and was relieved to find he could see. A second cause for relief was the sight of Chevron Savano seated opposite him, tied to a sturdy chair, and they were alone. Her bonds, though not expertly fitted, were many and varied. Her captors had used whatever hodgepodge of tethers that lay handy, and therefore her torso was bound with twine, her ankles with manacles, and her forearms and wrists were done up with twists of waxed paper. There was a leather lanyard drawn tight around her neck, securing it to the chair’s high back.
At least she still has the Timekey, he thought, seeing the instrument’s outline through Chevie’s shirt.
Riley was sure, without glancing down, that he was similarly trussed.
“Chevie,” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “Agent Savano. Stir yourself.”
Chevie opened her eyes, blinking away the ether’s aftereffects.
“Riley! You’re okay.”
“I am well, Agent. The ether fog will lift momentarily, trust me—I have experience.”
“Get out your pick,” said Chevie. “Free yo
urself, then me.”
Riley wiggled his ankle. “My pick is gone. Lost in the day’s exertions, or found by the coves what lifted us.”
Chevie breathed heavily through her nose, like an angry young bull. “Great. So now we gotta sit here, trussed up like Thanksgiving turkeys, and wait for this Malarkey character to show himself. Who is that guy, anyway?”
“Otto Malarkey is a person of considerable importance in the city. He is the mister-master of the Battering Rams, a criminal gang of bully boys who take a slice of everything from thimble rigging to opium dens. Nobody pulls a stroke in the Great Oven without first tipping their cap to Mr. Otto Malarkey.”
“I understood about half of that,” admitted Chevie. “So what you’re saying is that we’re in trouble again.”
Riley looked around. They were imprisoned in a large storeroom, possibly underground, judging by the chill. Sides of beef lurked in the shadows, suspended by chains from a ceiling beam, and wedges of light shone through gaps in the ill-fitted floorboards overhead. The hubbub of both commerce and merriment filtered down from above, punctuated by crashes and cries of dispute. Various liquids slopped through the boards, splashing on the mud floor. Riley saw wine, beer, and the slow drip of blood.
“We ain’t swine food yet, Chevie. Now, tell me a tale.”
Chevie started. “Tell you a tale? I gotta say it, Riley. I was not expecting that request.”
Riley began to tense and relax his muscles. “I am Garrick’s apprentice in murder and magic. One leaf of that book is escapology. But a get-out like this one is the veriest devil of a job. I don’t know the knots and I ain’t humping no tools. So tell me a tale while I wriggle my way free.”
Chevie was stumped. “I don’t have any stories, Riley. Books are not my thing. I like a good movie, though.”
“Tell me something of yourself, then. Why the strange tattoo?”
Chevie glanced at her right sleeve, which covered the tattoo spanning her upper arm. “The Chevron? Yeah, maybe that is a story.”
“This may be your last chance to tell it.”