Bobby had never felt a sensation like this before. He felt like he was falling, into a deep never-ending chasm, deeper and deeper. The chasm was spinning, his mind was spinning. And his head was hurting.
Alex was having an out of body experience. She thought she could see herself on the floor, and Bobby, too. She watched, detached, as Bobby held his head; he appeared to be in pain. Then there was nothing.
London 1888"God!" Bobby breathed. "Did you feel that?" He was still holding his head.
"Obviously not what you felt," Alex looked at him, concerned. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Bobby lied. But he still held his head, pressing inward, trying to relieve the pressure. Then, "you…you're all right?"
Alex assured him she was okay.
Slowly turning his splitting head to look around, he noticed they were in an entirely different place. "Eames," Bobby said slowly, distracted…he was looking past Alex at the window. Alex turned to see what had caught Bobby's attention.
"Oh my God, Bobby!" She hurried over to the window, followed closely by Bobby.
"Eames," Bobby said, hardly breathing, "Osmet…he…did it, he really did it!"
Both of them stared, in awe, as a horse-drawn hackney pranced by. The cobblestone streets were gas-lit and very narrow, the highest buildings were three-story Victorian homes, the shops small, quaint, and personal. It was a picture straight out of Dickens.
Behind them, unnoticed, an elderly gentleman looked on in amusement. He couldn't help but think how much they reminded him of two small children, full of wide-eyed wonder on Christmas day.
He watched them for a while, delighted with their fascination, unwilling to put an end to the moment.
After a moment, Bobby and Alex both sensed eyes on them, and turned.
The older man smiled. "Detective Goren? Detective Eames?"
Bobby came forward, hand extended. "And you are Detective-Inspector Cromwell?"
"Retired," Cromwell said, shaking both their hands. "Welcome to London. 1888, year of our Lord."
After exchanging pleasantries, Cromwell scrutinized them, and remarked, "I expect the first thing you'll want to do is change into something more…ah, appropriate."
They looked down at themselves, then at each other. Bobby was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt; Alex, jeans and an oversize sweatshirt. And both grinned sheepishly.
"I have clothing for you. I trust they'll fit you. Professor Osmet has graciously provided your approximate sizes. Come this way, I'll show you to your rooms."
Once in her room, Alex found her clothes laid out on the bed. "Oh no!" Alex thought, picking up first a petticoat, then some stockings and some decidedly non-Victoria's Secret underwear, then at last a long dress with a high collar and long sleeves. "Great," she muttered, donning the clothes, thinking of her partner. "I swear, if he laughs I will literally kill him!"
On the other hand, the typically well-dressed Bobby was somewhat impressed with his clothes, particularly the waistcoat.
Emerging from her bedroom, Alex came downstairs to the greatroom where Bobby waited with Inspector Cromwell. Both Bobby and Cromwell turned as Alex entered. Bobby stared hard at Alex.
"Say one word and you're dead," Alex said, threatening him.
Bobby continued to stare. "I wasn't…Alex, you…you look…beautiful."
"Shut up, Bobby!" Alex said. The last thing I need is your sarcasm.
But Bobby wasn't being sarcastic. He truly thought Alex had never looked more beautiful in the entire time he'd known her.
"This outfit is hardly practical for chasing down criminals," Alex grumbled, "or serial killers." She then took in Bobby's attire, and had to admit, he looked great, debonair and very handsome. But they weren't here to check out each other's looks, they had a job to do.
"Well," Bobby said, hardly able to take his eyes off of Alex, "shall we get started?"
They all went to the dining room, where Inspector Cromwell told them everything he knew about the case, the victims, and the suspects. Bobby seemed a little lost without his leather binder, and Cromwell offered him a journal, where Bobby immediately began to write.
Cromwell concluded with "As I said, I am no longer involved with the case. I retired recently, and my second-in-command, James Hammond, has now stepped up and is in charge of the investigation. Which, as you know, is going nowhere," he said sadly.
Bobby looked at Cromwell. "You're the one who requested help from Osmet, aren't you? The reason we're here?"
Cromwell smiled, but there was no humor in that smile. "Yes, I did. This…Ripper…he totally has us baffled. He is way beyond our capabilities. We need someone who is smarter than him, and capable. We need help. The whole city is terrorized…"
By the time Cromwell had filled them in all the information he had on Jack the Ripper, it was well into the evening. Bobby was a little disappointed; he'd hoped to see and examine some of the bodies. That would have to wait until the following day.
"We're on our own for supper I'm afraid," Cromwell announced. "Not knowing exactly when or how you would arrive, I gave my housekeeper the day off. All she knows is that upon her return we will have visiting American detectives staying with us. And by the way, you'll be receiving a small salary—"
Bobby and Alex both protested, but Cromwell insisted. "Besides, it wouldn't look quite right if you both traveled all the way to London with no money, now would it?" And he proceeded to give them their "salaries."
Between the three of them, the best they could come up with for their supper was some boiled beef and potatoes. Finding it rather unappetizing, Alex ate little and remarked, "Hope that housekeeper is a little better cook!"
Bobby looked up from his potatoes. "Actually the potatoes aren't too bad." But Bobby was hungry. Bobby was always hungry, and he hadn't eaten since last evening. He reached for another helping.
After retiring for the evening, Alex couldn't wait to hit that big feather bed, she was tired, and it looked so inviting. Falling into bed she pulled the heavy quilts over her. The house was damp and chilly, just like the outside temperature, and she snuggled in. Sleep came easily.
Bobby, too, couldn't wait for bed. The big bed in his room was calling to him, luring him in. He was exhausted. Bobby thought he'd sleep like a baby, something so rare that he couldn't remember the last time it had happened. But once in bed, his mind as usual went into overdrive, and sleep wouldn't come. In the rare moments when he'd drift off, the same thoughts and nightmares that plagued him his entire life also plagued him here. And now there was the extra little problem of a maniacal serial killer out there somewhere, paralyzing an entire city with fear. And he, Bobby, was charged with stopping him. Bobby climbed out of bed and went to the window. He stood at the window for a long time, staring at the gaslit street below, watching…
The next morning Bobby woke Alex, who immediately started grumbling. Alex was not a morning person.
"Coffee?" she asked. "I assume they drink coffee in merry ol' England?" She didn't appear to be in a very good mood, but that was Alex before her morning coffee.
Bobby gave her a little smile. "I think we can probably come up with some coffee. Come on, Eames, get up."
"Leave me alone," she mumbled, pulling the quilts over her head. "Coffee! When I have coffee, I'll get up!"
Bobby sighed. "Hey, did I tell you what I'm getting you for Christmas?" Without waiting for her to reply, he told her. "It's a T-shirt with a dwarf on it. It says 'Grumpy'"
That got her up. She grabbed both her boots, and threw them at him. One Bobby ducked, the other hit him in the head.
"Ow!" he laughed. "Okay, I'm getting you that coffee!" And he got out as quickly as he could.
After breakfast, everything was all business as the three of them prepared to go to the police station in Whitechapel. The further they got from London proper, and closer to Whitechapel, the seamier it became. Whitechapel was virtually a slum, very dirty and foul smelling, with raw sewage running through the streets. The place was teeming with prostitutes, even in the daytime. Most were mothers with no other recourse, trying to support their many children, about half of whom would not survive past the age of five. And many of those that did survive spent their days begging in the streets.
Before entering the police station, Alex felt a tug on her sleeve. A grubby little boy, all eyes and blond hair, looked up at her. He never said a word, just held up his little cup, those huge eyes saying everything.
Alex looked at Bobby, her heart breaking. The boy looked just like Johnny, her nephew. "Bobby…"
But Bobby was already digging into his pocket, pulling out about half of his salary, and dropped it into the boy's cup. The boy stared at the inside of his cup, and looked up at Bobby in wonder. He said something in an accent so thick they could barely make it out, then the boy ran off.
Cromwell ushered them both inside. "I'm sorry," he said. "There's just no way to feed them all…" He closed the door on the outside world.
James Hammond, the new Detective-Inspector, watched as the two American detectives entered. He was not a bit happy about their arrival. "I suppose there are no poor in America?" he asked contemptuously.
"Easy, James," Cromwell growled. "Remember, they're here to help."
"I never asked for help! We can handle this ourselves, we don't need outsiders—"
"Is that because your investigation is going so well!" Bobby interjected. He couldn't help it, couldn't understand how pride could prevent someone from asking for help when lives were at stake.
"Okay, Boys," Cromwell said, trying to make peace. He introduced them all. Hammond refused to shake Bobby's hand, but he did shake Alex's hand, possibly because she hadn't rubbed him the wrong way like Bobby. Bobby seemed to have a knack for that. However, the two other policeman there took to the Americans, especially young Willie, who seemed quite impressed with Bobby.
Hammond reluctantly began to work with Bobby and Alex, figuring he didn't have much choice.
"So far," he began, "we have a list of about nine suspects." His last few words were drowned out by a strange noise, coming from?…Bobby listened intently, then turned towards the jailroom.
"That's far enough, Goren," Hammond said, virtually ordering Bobby to stop. "It's only Harris, probably disciplining an unruly prisoner."
Bobby stared at him for a second, then pushed open the heavy door, which was normally locked. Entering the dimly lit hallway, he momentarily let his eyes get accustomed to the semi-darkness. Then what he saw enraged him.
A guard, about the size of Bobby, was standing over a prisoner. The prisoner was handcuffed and shackled to a large ring in the middle of the cell, on his knees as the sneering guard kicked and beat him with a billy club. The helpless prisoner was begging for him to stop.
In a flash, Bobby was on the guard. He kicked the billy club from the man's hand, and knocked him into the wall. The guard hit the wall hard, then sank to the floor. Bobby quickly regained control of himself. Staring hard at the guard Bobby said, in a chillingly quiet voice, "don't do it again. Ever." The others had followed Bobby in and witnessed the exchange. And none of them missed the look that passed between Bobby and that guard.
After exiting the jailroom, Cromwell then said the words that proved to be horribly prophetic. " I'm afraid, Bobby, that you have made yourself a very treacherous enemy."
TBC