Don't tell him that though.
He settles back in the seat, pressed against me shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. Tease. Yeah, I know he doesn't realize the effect his body has on mine--and wouldn't acknowledge it if he did--but that doesn't stop the effect from happening. He's changed. I haven't. The autumn night is chill, and his lean form feels oh-so-warm, tempting me to rewrite this
platonic
friendship. Plato has a lot to answer for, in my opinion. Hmm, I wonder what Arthur would think of a story where Watson seduces Holmes...
"The case, at this point, is more a matter of headwork than footwork," he concludes. "Thank you anyway, doctor, but I've no need to see Whitechapel tonight."
"Good, because there ain't much there worth seeing." Egbert huffs out his breath. "I've driven Master Geoffrey into the district all hours of day and night. It looks bad, and smells worse. He'll make himself sick, that young gent, campaigning to fix the place."
"Only if he thought it would win him extra accolades," Arthur says dryly. "All Geoffrey Lawrence wants to make is a name for himself. His risks are calculated for optimum publicity. The very controversy of his social reform platform keeps him in the headlines."
"You've known him long, have you?" Holmes asks casually.
"For several years now, ever since his father and I became friends over a flare-up of the old man's gout. When he sallies forth, it's only to gather fodder for his rants. Talks a good show, but that's all it is, I'm afraid. He preaches one thing, practices another. Calls for better conditions, but privately scorns the poor wretches who need them. Under that humanitarian façade beats the heart of a bigot. Correct me if I'm wrong," Arthur calls through the trapdoor. "Speak freely, man, this conversation will go no farther than the cab. Have you ever seen him offer so much as a farthing to any of the beggars he interviews?"
"Um... no." Egbert coughs, as though embarrassed for Geoffrey.
I think of how Hunter always put his money where his mouth was and gave away billions. Or will. I have to keep reminding myself that my personal past lies in the future. Weird thing, time-travel.
"But I don't see every move he makes in Whitechapel," Egbert adds, in what appears to be an attempt to defend the young man. "Sometimes he has me wait for him by a public house while he walks around on his own. Whatever else he is, he's no coward."
Egbert has a point. The East End slums of Victorian London were some of the foulest slums of the western world. Thousands of people cramped into the most appalling conditions. People in dire straits do dire things. Geoffrey Lawrence is lucky he hasn't been mugged, or worse. Then again, he might move about with impunity. Whether or not any aid comes from his own pocket, the people must know he's lobbying on their behalf. To them, he may be a hero.
I'm not sure what to think of him, actually. He sounds like a man who waves the right banner for the wrong reason--and maybe doesn't do it quite the way he should--but at least he's trying to do
something.
So many see suffering and just walk blindly by.
The irony here is that our quarry himself helped improve the East End. Jack wasn't the first mass murderer, or the worst, but he was the first one whose crimes gained widespread newspaper coverage. Because of him, the public eye focused on Whitechapel, and nobody liked what they saw. He was the kick that started the ball rolling toward serious reforms.
"Shall we return to the admiral's, sir? Or are we still planning to catch the Ripper tonight?" Egbert asks. Sarcastic son of a shoemaker, isn't he?
"That depends." Holmes stifles another yawn. "Is Geoffrey at home?"
"Yes, has been all day," Arthur answers, sounding vaguely wary.
"Ah," Holmes says. "In that case, we can do both. Simultaneously."
Damn. And here I've been holding out for the Ripper being Queen Vicky's grandson and cohorts. I've always had a perverse proclivity for the royal cover-up theory.
Arthur tenses. "Surely you're not suggesting... "
"Of course not." Holmes punctuates the words with a haughty sniff. "I never
suggest
a definite conclusion."
"But...
Geoffrey Lawrence
?" Arthur persists. "Impossible."
You'd think he'd know better, having created the character he's challenging. For that matter, the character's previous persona was equally cocksure. Hunter Steele or Sherlock Holmes, they both have all the answers. There's no arguing with either of them.
"The man has motive," Holmes states. "
Publicity.
The murders, by their mysterious and ghoulish nature, have brought tremendous attention to his cleanup campaign--publicity that endures, because just as the grave dust begins to settle on one, another carved corpse is found. On top of which, it's known that the mutilations are not the cause of death, but inflicted afterward, implying they were done for shock value, specifically to attract notice."
Or the crazed act of a pervert. Sexual serial killers commit such atrocities. But in this instance, and despite most of the victims being prostitutes, the coroners' reports declared that none of them showed any signs of sexual use before or after death. I don't know about Arthur, but I'm willing to hear more.
"Two, he has opportunity," Holmes continues. "Geoffrey Lawrence is known in Whitechapel, known to visit the area by day or night,
and
known to interview beggars and soiled doves. Thus, even with the Ripper terror hanging over the place, his victims would have no qualms about stopping for him if he approached. He's one of the least likely to be suspected, and knows it. Which brings us to point three... He has gonads the size of a hot air balloon. Metaphorically speaking."
"
Ahem.
.. " Arthur half chokes. "My dear fellow, Holmes doesn't use such... metaphors."
No, but his former self used much worse. Point three had a slight ring of Hunter to it, but tidied up for Holmes.
Who narrows his eyes at Arthur. "Do you presume to dictate how I may or may not express myself?"
Arthur glances at me. "What would you say to my sending him over a waterfall in a future story?... Oh, never mind." He shakes his head at Holmes. "You've presented a good case, but it's still impossible. The latest victim was found this morning. Geoffrey was home all night and stayed abed till noon. Said he felt fatigued. I know because I was there in the house the whole while myself."
"The perfect alibi for him," Holmes says, unperturbed. "
If
the latest victim were Jack's. However, a former sailor named Burke killed her, under the instructions of Timothy's friend, Marris, who'd intended it to
look
like a Ripper job.
"The girl had been... compromised by Timothy, who didn't want his father to know and had offered her money to relocate, so to speak, with Marris arranging the deal for him. But Marris had her murdered, instead--and pocketed the bribe himself, no doubt. Beyond the monetary gain, I believe he felt he was doing away with a rival, while keeping Timothy in the dark regarding the deed. The body was to be maimed beyond recognition, but its location put a name to it."
He pauses for breath, then recounts what we witnessed at Marris's house, adding his own conjectures regarding the background of the incident, such as:
Burke was a longtime scoundrel. Marris, a manipulator. He'd known Burke since boyhood, been corrupted by him and secretly hated the man, but needed him to do his dirty work. Marris was also a male prostitute and an opium addict. He and Burke together operated a sideline business, which might be titled
Discretion for Sale
, whereby they helped wealthy gentlemen escape embarrassing predicaments. Timothy Lawrence was one of their best customers. And Mary Kelly probably wasn't the first person they'd killed.
"Good Lord," Arthur murmurs.
"I'm getting a headache," Egbert complains.
I think of Timothy, and my heart aches. Is he home yet, I wonder. Has he seen the papers, heard about Mary, put two and two together?
Timothy may be Trouble with a capital T, but he's also troubled. Not sure which way to swing. He's young and confused, intimidated by his father, doesn't much care for his brother... and doesn't seem to like himself, either. But I believe he honestly cared for the boy who'd hunted sea serpents and defended him from bullies. I can even believe Marris returned that affection, before the opium took him over. Timothy became an unknowing cog in Marris's machinations, but their friendship was an old one and had once been made of better stuff. I think he'll handle the Geoffrey-Ripper news easier than the truth about Marris.
Yes, I accept Holmes's conclusion. (It was the hot air gonads that convinced me.) The trick, of course, will be proving it.
Then again, maybe we won't have to.
The cab rolls to a halt. The door opens. We three passengers step out, freeing Egbert for whatever else he cares to do tonight.
"Not a word to anyone of what's happened," Arthur cautions him.
"Crimey, no one would believe me anyway." Grumbling to himself, Egbert drives off.
Gee, I'm gonna miss him. But not much.
Silently, I follow Arthur and Holmes into a grand house where all the windows are round portholes. Very nautical. Admiral Lawrence, I gather, is somewhat eccentric.
He's also broad beamed, white haired, and staring. We find him seated in the parlor, after Arthur finds me one of Timothy's suits, and I make a quick costume change, it being deemed that Sherlock Holmes in the flesh will be novelty enough for the old man. Dr. Watson in drag might be too much. And, no, I'm not happy about this. If I wanted to wear guy clothes, I wouldn't be a cross-dresser.
Damn it.
Timothy, by the way, is not home yet. Hence the stare. It's aimed at a young strawberry blonde in calico seated across the room. A pretty girl with haunted eyes. She sits straight and motionless, a marble statue. And just as pale.
God, I love her dress. Of course, at the moment, I'd love
any
dress.
Both she and the admiral shoot glances our way as we enter the room. But before any introductions can be made, frantic footsteps hammer down the hall. A breathless Timothy bursts in, hair tousled, gaze wild, a newspaper clutched in a white knuckled hand.
The girl's eyes widen at the sight of him. Her mouth opens, but no words come out. Quivering, she rises from her chair. Timothy's flushed face contorts with a relief so great it looks almost painful.
"Thank heaven," he gasps on a ragged breath. "The butler said you'd recently arrived, but... " His voice cracks, and he stops, swallows. "I scarcely dared believe... " He takes a single step forward. "I'd just seen the papers... "
"It wasn't me," she whispers. "I let Jessica use my room last night." Sudden tears wet her cheeks. "I know you didn't want me to come here, but... I've been so frightened... I couldn't think where else to go."
Timothy strides toward her. "Mary, I'm so sorry... "
"Oh, Timmy, it's been an
awful
day." She rushes to meet him, and they land in each other's arms, clinging, sobbing--
"
Ahem
!" Admiral Lawrence clears his throat--loudly--a whip lash of a cough that snaps the couple apart.
Mary sniffles and gulps, fighting for composure, glancing from father to son.
The admiral glares at Timothy. "Am I to understand that you know this girl?"
"Yes, sir." Timothy looks like a man facing a firing squad--and without a last cigarette or blindfold--but holds his ground. "Father, allow me to present Miss Mary Kelly." He sucks in a deep breath and squares his shoulders. "The young lady I intend to marry." His gaze slants to Mary. "That is, if she'll have me."
"Oh, Timmy"--she starts crying again--"I never thought I'd ever hear you say that."
"Is that a yes?" he asks.
She cries harder, unable to speak, but nodding furiously.
"Young
lady
?" A derisive snort sounds from a nautical nose.
Timothy glowers. "She is to me, sir." He fishes in a pocket and hands her his handkerchief. Mary gazes at him like he just gave her diamonds. "This lady is the mother of my future child. I intend to do right by her. And I'll thank you to treat her with respect."
"Indeed." Admiral Lawrence settles back in his chair and laces pudgy fingers over a portly belly. "And how do you expect to support your new family when I disown you?" He fires his torpedo stare at Mary. "I hope you realize, miss, that if you marry this young bounder, that's all you'll be getting. Him, and nothing else."
Mary tilts up her chin in defiance. "I never said I wanted anything else, did I?"
Timothy's hands fist at his sides. "How? I don't know yet, but rest assured I
will
find a way. If I have to sell fish or sweep chimneys, I'll do it!"
"And I'll help." Mary gives Timothy a brave smile. "We'll manage."
"Of course we will." He returns the smile.
Me, I've never seen him look better.
The admiral grips the arms of his chair, his face turning redder and redder. Just when I think he's about to explode, he throws back his head and roars with laughter.
"By Jove, I've misjudged you, lad! You've got more backbone than I thought." He leans forward, suddenly stern and staring again. "But you've misjudged me as well, if you think I'll let any grandchild of mine be raised by a
chimney sweep.
You'll both stay right here in this house where you belong!" He thumps the chair arm with the heel of his hand to punctuate the decree.
Actually, he looks pretty good, too.
I find myself in a moment of abstract reflection, pondering the phenomenon of bisexuality. I've never thought it meant that a person
requires
both genders, just that a bisexual person has the
choice
of either or. Timothy's made his choice tonight, and something tells me he's going to be okay with it. How he'll deal with Marris's death, I'm not sure, but he has Mary now to help him through life's trials. And he has a father, too, one he can finally see eye to eye with. He and Mary are right. They'll manage, and probably very well.