STEALING TIME

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright 2010

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Half an hour later, the American helped her down from a hansom cab—how he had found it, she couldn’t guess—paid the driver, and asked him to wait.  The conversation had been illuminating, especially the American's speculations about a possible, and very unjust, impending war in South Africa.  Moreover, he'd seemed quite interested in Ada's views on amending the lot of the poor.  His name was Angus McAran—of mixed Irish and Scottish ancestry, no doubt, and therefore considerably more concerned with the lot of the workers than an Englishman would be.  After all, would his grandparents have emigrated to America if they'd been wealthy?

Now, though, they turned to skirt the half-acre of ashes and charred wood with angry intent.

There were two others there before them—a tall, thin man with a shorter, stocky companion, conversing in low tones.  As Ada and McAran surveyed the ruins, their steps brought them closer and closer to the others.

McAran didn't notice.  He pointed toward a blackened mass by the remains of a chimney.  "Odd place to leave a bundle of wicks, wouldn't you say?"

"Highly suspicious," Ada agreed.

"Do you catch the odor of coal oil?" the tall man asked his companion.

The stocky man gave a sniff and shook his head.  "Your nose is keener than mine, old fellow."

As well it might be—the taller man's nose was thin but long, a blade over a thin-lipped mouth.  His eyes were scarcely visible under the brim of his deerstalker cap—odd to wear a hunter's hat in the city—and his long supple fingers caressed the bowl of a calabash pipe, the only sign of his excitement.

"No, it is most assuredly coal oil—not lamp-oil at all."  The taller man turned to McAran and Ada.  "The bundle of wicks is suspicious, I agree, but it was not the first to burn."

"Maybe, but it certainly gave the fire a boost."  McAran limped over to the other pair.  Even the stocky man was half a head above him, and he definitely had to look up at the tall man.  "What’s your interest in this case?"

"Boredom, and an ambiguous report in the morning paper," the man answered.  "One must keep one's deductive faculties whetted, after all.  For example, regard the remains of this timber."  He led them two steps over to a broken and blackened baulk.  "Notice the indentation."

McAran looked down, frowning.  "So it's burned worse in the middle than the ends.  What of it?"

"It was a roof-beam," the tall man said.  "It would have grown hotter and hotter as the flames below forced their heat higher.  Eventually it would have begun to smoke, then burst into flame by itself."

"All along its length!"  McAran stared at the hollowed section, missing the look of approval he won from the tall man.  "It should have burned evenly all along!"

Ada came up, puzzled.  "Why should one part of it have burned more deeply than another?  Was the wood softer?"

"A possibility."  The tall man regarded her with keen interest.  "However, there might be a more sinister explanation."  He drew a large magnifying glass out of his caped coat and leaned over to inspect the wood.  "There are two channels burned more deeply opposite the hollow."  He passed the lens to Ada.

She leaned forward, examining the timber, and wrinkled her nose in disgust.  "I see what you mean—the odor of coal oil is quite strong."

"Yes, stronger there than in most of the area," the tall man said.

Ada looked up in surprise.  "There are indeed channels—almost as though cords had burned there."

"Wicks!" McAran exclaimed.

The tall man nodded, eyes glowing.  "Lengths of waxed cord that had not yet been cut into wicks.  I suspect they held a wad of cotton waste that had been soaked in coal oil."

"You are saying that someone set this fire deliberately."  Ada didn't realize how cold her voice had become.

"Quite so."  The tall man nodded, eyes bright.  "I would suspect a fellow who, if I am to judge by his handiwork, has accepted commissions of this sort in the past."

"If he's known," demanded Ada, "why isn't he behind bars?"

"Because it is not he who is known, but his methods," the thin man said.  "Besides, he is meticulous—quite careful to leave no traces of his part in the event."  Again, he pointed at the hollow in the beam.  "Still, the bundled wicks are a favorite of his—or of other fires which my inquiries indicate might be his work."

"Perhaps I can speak to a few people who may choose to seek a bit harder for evidence," Ada said.

"Not the police, I trust," the tall man said.  "Since no one was killed, this must be rather low on their list."

"No," Ada said.  "I was thinking of a few solicitors I know, who are retained by insurance companies."

"Ah!  Well, if that's the case, you might tell them to look for a fellow under the average height—perhaps only a few inches above five feet—and seemingly fat, though his bulk is really all muscle."  The tall man gestured at the ashes.  "He generally dresses in black clothing, smokes a rather vile sort of small cigar, has smallish eyes set rather too close together, and prepares fish for sale at the open-air market."

Ada stared.  "How could you possibly know that?"

"The evidence is clear to see."

'If you are quite done," the stocky man said, "these fumes cannot be doing any of us a bit of good."

"Quite so, Doctor."  The tall man drew back.

McAran stepped with him, frowning.  "What are you going to do about it?"

"Speak of it to an inspector I know at Scotland Yard," the tall man said.  "From there, I fear it will lie in the hands of the Metropolitan Police."

"And lie, and lie, and lie!"  Ada said angrily.  "Will nothing be done?"

"Very little, I suspect," the tall man said.  "If someone had died in the fire, Scotland Yard might show a bit more interest—but since no one has, it will surely be months before they will have time to consider the case."

"I know a barrister," Ada said, her voice harsh.  "Perhaps there might be some chance of action."

"I sincerely hope so," the tall man said, "but I doubt it.  The proof that is so clear to the four of us would scarcely be compelling to a judge and jury.  I fear arson is the one crime that destroys its own evidence.  It's amazing there was anything left for us to find."

"I shall find a way," Ada said, voice hard with determination.  "It is not right that the people of this neighborhood should have their livelihoods snatched from them.  I shall discover a means of making the perpetrators of this injustice pay.”

"Then I shall wish you the greatest good fortune in your endeavors."  The tall man produced a small rectangle of pasteboard from the folds of his caped overcoat.  "Please call upon me if I may be of assistance."

"Thank you."  But Ada took the card absently, gaze still on the ruins.

"May I advise you to leave the area?" the stocky man asked.  "The neighborhood is scarcely the safest, especially when the fog is so thick."

"A good thought," McAran said.  "Would you like to share our cab?"

The tall man looked up, then smiled sympathetically.  "I fear your driver became impatient."

McAran looked up in surprise at the empty corner where the hansom had been standing, then recited a string of perfectly ordinary words in tones that made them clearly obscene.  Ada looked up, prepared to take offense, but found there was really nothing objectionable in McAran's language—though she did wonder what "ketchup" was.

"We'd better walk together," McAran said.

"If you think so," Ada said in cool and neutral tones.

"Good day to you," the stocky man said.

"And to you," Ada returned, then to the tall man, "and to you, sir."

"Good day."  They tipped their hats, then turned away.

"I think we might want to hurry," McAran said.

Ada looked up in surprise, then nodded.  "Yes, the day is darkening, isn't it?"

"And the wind is picking up."  McAran set off beside her.

Ada kept pace with him.  As they turned the corner, a gust of wind tore the pasteboard from her fingers and sent it spinning out across the ashes.

"Bother!" Ada said.  "Still, the gentleman could scarcely have known all he claimed."

"I've heard of educated guesses of that sort turning out to be accurate," the American said.

They were passing a public house and heard the key turn in the lock.  Ada glanced up and saw the publican's back retreating from the door.

"Excellent idea!' the American swerved toward it.

"Isn't it rather too early?" Ada said in tones of severity.

"For ale?  Yes," the American said.  "For information, no."

"You can't find the one without the other, of course."

"Of course," the American said, as though it should have been obvious,

and went in.

Sighing, Ada followed him.

“A pint of bitter," the American told the publican, who pulled the pint with a criticizing look at Ada.  She tilted her chin a little higher, knowing there was no law against a woman in a public house, not even as a patron.  Custom, however, was another matter—at least for women of the genteel class.

The publican set the tankard on the bar in front of the American and took his coin.  The American took a long thirsty swallow and set the tankard down with a sigh of satisfaction.  Ada only regarded him with a look of censure.

"Dusty work this morning," the American said to the publican.

"Looking over the ashes, were you?" the publican asked, polishing glassware.

"That we were," the American said.  "Anyone not one of your regulars stop in the night of the fire?"

"Half a dozen if there was one," the publican said,  "all come to see the blaze, I've no doubt."

"Toffs like me?"

The publican finally grinned, showing a gold tooth.  "You're a 'Merican, aincher?"

"Hail Columbia," the American replied.

"Then you can't be a toff." 

"So much for my illusions," the American sighed.  "How'd you know?"

"By the way you talk," the publican said, "same as I know the stranger folk were Cockneys."

"Not their district, is it?"  The American frowned.  "We're a bit beyond the sound of Bow bells."

"Aye, but not that much beyond," the landlord said.  "They're through here now and again."

"So no need to wonder how they happened to be in the area?"

"Nowt," the publican answered.

Ada spoke up.  "I don't suppose one of them would have been a fat little fellow, no taller than me, smelling of fish?  He would have been dressed in black and smoking a rather vile sort of small cigar."

The publican frowned.  "'Appen there was.  Sipped 'is pint in the doorway, 'e did, so's 'e could watch the fire.  Friend of yours?'

"No, but someone whose acquaintance I hope to make."

The American drained his pint and set it back on the bar.  "Well, that settled the dust.  Thanks."  He turned to Ada.  "Moving on?"

"Of course."  Ada led the way out of the public house and, as they walked down the street, said to the American, "So he took pleasure in his work."

"A true craftsman, no doubt," the American agreed.

A young woman dashed out of an alley ahead, saw them, and skidded to a halt.  She was tall and slender with large eyes, a tip-tilted nose, generous lips, lustrous auburn hair, and a look of panic.  She turned to them, hands outstretched.  "Ow, please, sir an' mum, come 'elp!  My Alf, 'e's been took all queer!  Fell down, 'e 'as, roight there in the alley!"

"We certainly shall!”  Ada turned to the American, then frowned, for he was staring at the young woman, seeming almost in shock.  She looked at him, then looked again, then caught his cuff and tugged.  "Ow please, sir, come 'elp!'"

The American gave himself a shake and nodded.  "Of  course."  He followed.

Ada was already ahead of him, seething with anger and impatience at the American's gawking.  If that sort of woman was to his taste, no doubt he deserved what he received.

They followed the woman through perhaps fifteen feet of stained brick, the walls only a foot to each side of Ada's shoulders.  At the far end, she could see the gray waters of the Thames.  Then the alley widened into a small courtyard surrounded by sooty brick walls with windows almost opaque with grime.  She looked about, frowning.  "Where's this Alf of yours?"

"Right here."

Ada turned, amazed as much by the sudden clarity of the woman's speech as by the steel in her voice.

"I came to kill you," the woman said, "but bagging Dr. McAran is an unexpected and very pleasant bonus."  She lifted the weapon, her trigger finger tightening.

A huge hand came out of nowhere to engulf hers and force it down.  The gun fired, an explosion deafening in the enclosed space as it rang off the walls.  The bullet sang as it bounced off the cobbles.  Angus darted in and wrested the revolver away from the woman.

At least someone will notice now, Ada thought, and was shocked when not a single window opened.

The woman screamed with rage; her foot swung in a blur.  It jolted the American’s shoulder, slamming him back against the bricks.  With a roar of anger, the rest of the top-hatted hulking brute stepped out to follow his hand and wrap his other arm about her throat.  She clasped it with both hands and sagged, her knees bending, then straightening suddenly as she bowed and heaved forward.  The brute flipped over her head, shouting as he landed on his side on the cobbles—and swept a roundhouse kick that knocked the woman's legs out from under her and sent her sprawling on the ground beside him.  The big man was on his feet in a second, and the woman started up—then froze as her own revolver touched her temple.  The hammer clicked as the American's thumb pulled it back.

Ada braced herself for the explosion—everyone knew that Americans were fascinated with firearms, played with them from infancy.

"Now," McAran said, "we'll find out if you only loaded one bullet in here."

The woman spat a curse that made Ada wince, then said, "An unloaded gun is a piece of scrap iron.  You know that."

Ada stared.  What had happened to the Cockney accent?

The American lifted his head in surprise, then recovered and frowned.  "The judo tells us what you are.  Why were you trying to kill this woman?"

"Because she's going to become your lawyer, Dr. Angus McAran," the woman snapped.  "Anything to weaken your cause is good for ours."

The American—no, Dr. McAran—said, "My cause is protecting civil liberties.  How could they be bad for yours?"

"Because they get in the way of efficient government!” the woman retorted.  "People don't know what's good for them.  Leave them to their own devices, and anyone with half a brain can lead them by their noses!"

"Are you so sure your bosses do know what's good, then?"

"Of course!  The government studies the needs of the people and gives them all the necessities—and what they don't know, the employers do!  Work for a large corporation in a state governed with real efficiency, and you'll be taken care of all your life."

"Assuming the government doesn't take a dislike to you and throw you in jail—or that big business doesn’t steal your patents for a song."

"You think your beloved democracy can do any better?" the woman demanded, eyes flashing.

Ada had to admit she was beautiful, especially now, with her face flushed with anger and her eyes bright with mockery.  Chestnut hair cascaded from beneath her bonnet to enfold her shoulders; her face was heart-shaped with huge long-lashed hazel eyes and rosebud lips.  She hadn't needed a revolver to subjugate McAran.

Though he didn't seem to be subjugated.

"Of course democracy can do better," he said with a tight-lipped smile.  "Lincoln had faith in the common man, that you can't fool all of the people all of the time.  Me, I'd say the same thing—but because I have faith in statistics."

"Misplaced, both of you!" The woman glared.  "Even your beloved Americans will vote away their clumsy Bill of Rights when they're country's attacked and they start wondering if it's their office building that will blow up next."

"Don't worry," Angus said.  "They'll vote the Bill of Rights back in when the war's over."

"That war will never be over," the woman said with malicious satisfaction.

A feeling of unreality gripped Ada.  Could she truly be standing here, in an East End alley, watching an American argue with a woman on her knees while he held a revolver to her head?

"I suppose a good politician can always find a way to keep a war going," McAran said, "but other politicians can find a way to end it and bring the—" 

With a cry of triumph, the woman leaped up, knife flashing as she drove it straight for McAran's heart.  Startled, he pulled the trigger as he stumbled back; the explosion thundered off the walls, but the bullet went wide.  The brute charged the woman, but she had stepped back and farther back into a corner, where her form began to blur, then faded into the shadows.

The big man drew up with a curse of which Ada didn't understand a single word—but she did notice that his accent had suddenly become American.

"Blast!" McAran said.  "I let her distract me!"

"A woman like that would distract a marble statue, Ang," the big man said.  "You wouldn't have shot her anyway."  Then, to Ada, "He's too kind-hearted."

"I'm... not sure I would describe that as a character flaw," Ada said.  "What was that nonsense about politics?"

"Just a line to distract us," the big man said, a little too quickly.  "We call it 'blind-siding.'  Well, at least we stopped her from killing you."

"Killing me?"  Ada stared, shocked.  "Why would she want my death?"

"Don't really know," Angus said.  "We think it was because, in the original time-line, you saved a concern that was just starting up, by proving that a giant limited company had hired someone to set fire to the factory we just looked at."

"But... but why would she care about that?"

"Not just her—the people who sent her, too," the big man told her.

"They think the world should be run by businessmen," McAran said, "ones who take their orders from politicians, of course."

The big man nodded.  "Of course, the big businesses bribe the politicians to do what they want."

"Why would anyone want such a system?" Ada asked, staring.

"The rich and powerful have wanted it all through history," McAran explained.  "It's just that this woman's bosses believe people are too ignorant and too rash to make wise decisions for themselves."

"So they will kindly make those decisions for them," Ada said bitterly.  "You have the right of it—the rich and powerful have always found excuses to justify their own rule."

The two men exchanged an approving glance.

"Could it be that I share your political views?" Ada asked, with a touch of sarcasm.  "But why could it be so important that I might have saved a small company?"

"Because if you had," McAran explained, "that company could have grown and grown and kept the giant company from gaining a monopoly.  That's why they felt threatened."

"In our world," the big man explained, "it's become one of the biggest firms ever, a leading conglomerate in the 21st Century."

"What do you mean, 'in your world?'" Ada asked sharply.

The two men exchanged another glance.  Then McAran said, "We've just set up a new timeline, Ms Rector.  In the original one, you died, and your body disappeared."

 

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