Downtime Read online

  “What if he passed it on to someone else?”

  “Well then…” Ezra considered. “It may take a while to find it.”

  “Can you spell that out in hours?”

  “More likely days, I would think.”

  “Son of a—“

  “Mr. Nash,” Ezra said in soft warning and dragged me to a spot shielded by a row of shelves. “You must keep your voice down. You’re going to get us both thrown out and then we will never find it.”

  “Days,” I repeated in disbelief. “Why days? What is so damned hard about finding one book? Whitby’s about to leave on vacation, he’s heading for the door, and the boss shoves a book in his hands and tells him to take care of it. What’s he going to do with it? Drop it on the nearest desk and keep going.”

  Ezra tried to fight back a smile and almost made it. “No, he wouldn’t. Not if he wishes to remain employed here. They’ve become quite strict about keeping track of donations. He would have taken it back to the print books department or given it into the care of another cataloguer who would be here today. Henry will find that out. I’m just trying to make certain it hasn't been shelved already and you, Mr. Nash, are impeding my progress.”

  “You can’t just focus all your psychic energy on it and levitate it off the shelf?”

  Ezra added placidly as he moved past me, “I really think we might have been better off if we had summoned a demon.”

  I didn’t argue that. Hell, I agreed with him. Following him back to the catalogue, I watched as he began to flip through cards again with dexterous speed. It took me a minute to catch on that he was searching his way through an inordinately large number of cards. “Aren’t they alphabetical?”

  He gave an acknowledging grunt as he moved to another row of cards. I dogged him, making an effort to keep my voice low. “So why’re you looking through all of them? Doesn’t Whitby know his ABC’s?”

  Ezra paused without looking up and blew out a breath. “Because…” He stole a sidelong look at me and I saw the reluctance to answer in his eyes. “Neither Henry nor I can remember the title of the book. Or the author,” he added before I could ask.

  “Oh, come on. You’re the Latin expert, right? You didn’t look at the title when you started showing off for the guys?”

  “Mr. Nash, I am sorry—“

  “No, of course you didn’t.” I leaned my elbows on the gleaming wood surface in front of me and pressed my face into my hands. “Why would you? You were just playing around. You weren’t actually planning on ruining someone’s life.” I punctuated the last with a glare in his direction.

  He sighed. “No need to lose your temper. There are a good many arcane manuscripts here, grimoires and the like, but I feel confident I will recognize it when I see it.”

  I was screwed. “Okay. Look, I agree with you that he couldn’t have gotten it shelved this fast. He has to have dumped it somewhere, so that’s where we should be looking first. Who’s his closest pal here? Or better yet, the guy he usually sticks with the stuff he doesn’t feel like messing with?”

  Ezra stared at me dazedly. “It’s something of a challenge just understanding you.”

  Just what I didn't need right now, a language barrier in my own damned language. I took a firm grip on his arm. “I’m going home today. One way or another we’re going to find that book and you guys are sending me home. Are we clear on that?”

  If I was hoping for a bit of acquiescing, cowering fear, all I got was the slight curve of a lip and a curious sparkle in the blue eyes. He patted the hand I’d wrapped on his arm. “I’m sorry you’ve had to endure our primitive conditions, Mr. Nash. Please try not to worry. We said we’d send you back and we will, but you must let us look for the book.” He slipped out of my grasp and settled his hands on my shoulders, turning me in the direction of the door. “Why don’t you take a tour of the museum or go for a walk. Oh, and do give Derry back his coat. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

  Ezra delivered me back into Derry’s hands with the whispered admonition to keep me out of trouble. If I hadn’t needed him in one piece to get me back home, he would have been in several pieces by now. So maybe he had a point that he and Henry knew their way around and could get into the nooks and crannies of this place. And maybe there were places I couldn’t access without getting Henry and Ezra into trouble. Fine. I'd just have to find a way to hunt around without attracting any attention.

  “Ezra said something about a tour?”

  Derry made a face. “The tour guide takes you through rather swiftly. You will not have the opportunity to see everything, let alone linger long enough to really see anything. But if you’d like, it would please me to take you through myself.”

  Sounded good to me. And if I happened upon any storage areas stuffed with books, I felt confident I could persuade my personal tour guide to help search through them.

  By four-thirty, we were back on the museum steps, soaking in some desultory sunlight as clouds gathered in. I felt restless and tired both, not the most pleasant state, and a certain amount of homesickness creeping back in made me feel worse. I handled homesickness well enough when Faulkner sent me overseas; but I’d never felt as far from home as I did now. And my chances of getting back seemed to be dwindling.

  Derry rubbed my shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t be downhearted. If we’ve no luck today, we’ll have twice the luck Monday. You won’t mind a day or two more with us? We aren’t so bad.”

  “You aren’t,” I agreed. I couldn’t say the same for the two missing members of the party. “Guess I’m a little homesick. This whole thing, it still seems unreal.” At least it sure as hell ought to have been.

  “Going forward into the future, there's a notion to unsettle the soul," Derry mused. "You're safe enough here, lad. No surprises lie in wait if you know your history.”

  I felt sure they could all go back through time and their knowledge of any era they landed in would make mine pale in comparison. Apart from basic history lessons I hadn’t paid much attention to in school; I was ill-equipped to deal with this world on a daily basis. Christ, I couldn’t even get dressed without help.

  At five sharp, Henry showed up. Empty-handed, he moved briskly down the steps and informed us that they were no closer to finding the book and he was beginning to wonder if someone hadn’t just walked away with it. Before I could kill him, Derry questioned him and Henry acknowledged that Whitby had likely put it down somewhere they just hadn’t searched yet. “Or perhaps he’s taken it to have something to read at the seaside.”

  I sucked in a breath and fixed Henry with a stare that made the average drug smuggler whimper for his mother. Henry retreated discreetly to Derry's side while Derry looked at me, a warm twinkle in his eyes. “You’ve a commendable restraint, Morgan Nash. Henry, where’s Ezra?”

  Henry shrugged. “I haven’t seen him in three hours. They’re closing. He should be along.”

  It was another fifteen minutes before Ezra was along. He looked tired and glum, eyes bloodshot behind a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sitting on his nose. He plucked them off and rubbed his eyes. “No luck yet. I’m sorry, Mr. Nash.” The apology was sincere. I couldn’t fault him there. He’d obviously tried. But the fact remained-- I wasn’t going home today.

  What the hell, I'd just have to think of this as a vacation of the sort I never took. No sand, no surfing, no handsome lifeguards with sun-kissed skin…hell, no sun at all, I thought, looking up at the overcast sky. But the food was decent and the bed was comfortable. That was a start.

  It was time to begin improving the situation exponentially. “Any place around here a guy can get a cold beer?”

  “Cold beer?” Derry looked perplexed. “Whatever for?” He looked at Ezra who was equally mystified.

  “Cold beer, warm beer, I don’t care. Beer and food. In that order. How about it?”

  “We can’t take him to dinner, dressed as he is,” Henry said. “He’s barely fit for an eating-house, never mind a respectable restauran
t.” He drew out his watch to check the time, then snapped it shut decisively. “We’ll have to take him home for a change of clothes.”

  Ezra shook his head. “If we do that, there won’t be a table for us anywhere.”

  “Right, then,” Derry said, a wicked light in his eyes. “Down to Covent Garden for a sixpenny plate, just as we did when I was a boy.”

  “That’s not amusing,” Henry retorted as Ezra laughed.

  “Oh come,” Derry said, grinning. “It’ll be a lark.”

  “The Albion?” Ezra ventured.

  Henry vetoed that suggestion. “Over-cooked communal mutton and rancid stout. I think not.”

  Derry dropped his chin to his chest with a groan. “One night of it won’t do you any harm, man. If we stand about arguing, even those tables will be taken and we’ll be reduced to plundering Morgan’s hamper. The Albion will suit for tonight.”

  Henry didn’t argue but kept up his sulk all the way over on the bus. I was at their mercy, being the stranger in town, but I sensed I wasn’t going to like this place any more than Henry, albeit for different reasons. The cheaper the eats, the less sanitary the kitchen; and in this particular century, roaches were the least of my worries.

  The Albion turned out to be less of a roadside dive than I'd expected; just crowded, like any good New York restaurant would have been, and redolent with the mouth-watering smell of roast beef and hot bread. I found myself shuffled in between Derry and Ezra as they left their hats on a gleaming brass perch running the length of the wall and we were ushered to a table away from the worst of the noise and cigar smoke. A primly smiling waiter handed us white cards labeled “bill of fare”. It looked like tonight’s dinner came down to either beef or fish.

  “Stout all around?” Derry asked as we gave our order. There was a faint smile on Ezra’s face as he put in an additional request for a pint of bitter and Henry seconded that.

  When the drinks came, Ezra switched mine with his. “You’ll prefer it.”

  “Yeah? What makes you think so?”

  “A little bird told me.”

  Wise guy. All right, so maybe it was marginally more palatable than the sludge Derry was drinking. It wasn’t the ice cold beer I knew and loved. What disturbed me even more was that Ezra had bothered to order what he thought I’d like. Maybe he was still trying to get on my good side, so I wouldn’t keep bashing him in front of the others.

  Problem was, I didn’t have a good side where conmen were concerned. “Any likelihood there could be more than one copy of that book floating around?”

  Henry shrugged, letting Ezra field the question. Ezra seemed nearly as reluctant to hazard a guess. “I don’t know. We may have some luck in the older shops.”

  “I understand it’s hard to say when you have no idea of the name of the book.”

  A small crease appeared between his brows. “I did apologize,” he said with mild reproach.

  “An apology’s not what I’m looking for. You’re a psychic. Can’t you just come up with the name?”

  “It doesn’t quite work that way.”

  “It never does.” I sucked down a mouthful of beer. Damn, I was still tired. Worst case of jet lag I’d ever dealt with.

  "You have a terribly suspicious nature, Mr. Nash."

  Ezra sounded as bone-weary as I felt, but I was in no frame of mind to offer sympathy. I flashed him a dark look. “You better believe I do. In my line of work, a suspicious nature can save your life.”

  “Fair enough. But what about when you’re not working?”

  “When I’m not working?”

  “Just as I thought.”

  What was that supposed to mean? “I take my share of vacations. Just ask my boss. Speaking of which, if the museum’s closed tomorrow, I may as well take in some sights while I’m here. Not that you guys have to play tour guide,” I added quickly as alarm flickered in their eyes. “Just lend me a map. I can find my way around on my own.”

  Henry shook his head. “Leave him in Ezra’s charge, Derry. At least in the morning.”

  “In the morning?” I asked Derry. “Church?”

  “Aye. You’re welcome to come with us.”

  My Sunday mornings were invariably spent lolling in bed. And I had the sure feeling that church in the nineteenth century was even more arduous than in my own time. “Why don’t I meet you afterward for lunch?”

  Derry grinned. “Ezra calls me a heathen.”

  It was dark when we got home, but still too early for bed. Kathleen was in the parlor, knitting needles flying down the length of a brown sweater in progress. Her gaze merely flickered over me before settling on Derry with a question. I heard a soft groan escape him. The poor guy really hated lying to his sister.

  I had less of a problem with it, myself. “Guess this is something of a surprise, Miss Neilan. Believe me, I was hoping to leave today. But it looks like I’ll be here until Monday. I hope that’s not a problem, ma’am.”

  As the others helped themselves to the coffee and pie laid out on the table, Kathleen eyed me with her prim, polite smile. “Not at all, Mr. Nash. I would ask that you remember to dress for supper. And as I still do not have a vacant room for you, we must resolve the matter of sleeping arrangements.”

  Ezra cleared his throat. “Mr. Nash will stay with me tonight.” He met my eyes with a wary sidelong glance. “That is acceptable to you?”

  I shrugged. “As long as you don’t talk to ghosts in your sleep, I guess I can live with it.”

  The wrong thing to say, evidently, judging by the guilty flushes on the faces around the table. Henry seemed to be choking on a piece of pie. Derry slapped him on the back as he gulped down a mouthful of coffee. With an inexplicably murderous glare at Derry, Henry coughed and rasped, “You will stay with me tonight, of course, Mr. Nash.”

  Ah. Derry had indulged in a little boot-to-the-shin encouragement. But I was even less thrilled about spending the night with Henry. “Look, I was just joking about the ghosts. It really doesn’t matter—“

  “I had a hand in bringing you here,” Henry said. “I want to be fair. If you would be so good as to knock when you come up, I would appreciate it.” He patted his mouth with a napkin and, easing out of his chair, limped out of the parlor.

  Once again they'd rescued Ezra from having to share a bed with me. Though nine was a little early, I went up when the others did. Stopping briefly at Derry’s room to borrow the nightshirt again, I did as ordered and knocked at Henry’s door before coming inside. He was still awake and sitting in bed with the blankets over his legs, reading by candlelight. Just the sight made my eyes hurt. As I came in, he looked at me glumly over the glasses poised on his nose. “Mr. Nash. I hope you are not a restless sleeper.”

  “I sleep like a log,” I lied cheerfully and sat down on the loveseat to take off my shoes. Henry’s room was everything I expected. Bed, desk, chair, small sofa and rocker all neat, cushions plumped and throw pillows straight, knickknacks polished and arranged in a precise line along the mantelpiece, books shelved in pleasing visual order. Even his nightshirt was buttoned to the top button and his nightcap tidily perched. It was enough to make me want to pull it down over his eyes.

  Stripping to my briefs, I tugged my own nightshirt on and sighed, glad the mirror was turned toward the wall. Too wide awake to sleep, I picked up a book and scanned a few pages, to find it was some sort of text on the supernatural written in unreadably esoteric language. I noted the bookplate with "Property of Henry Dawlish" written in pinched script and rolled my eyes. He was the kind of guy who'd make you sign an IOU before lending you a book, I could tell.

  "Got anything to read besides this paranormal nonsense?"

  Henry eyed me with stark disapproval. "Nonsense, Mr. Nash? And what proof do you have that it's nonsense?"

  "What proof do you have that it isn't?"

  Henry returned his attention to his book with a dismissive sniff. Giving up on the idea of reading myself to dreamland, I climbed into bed. But hitting
the hay before midnight on a Saturday went against years of habit. In the absence of alcohol, television, or sex, I had no alternative but to annoy Henry further. "You and Ezra, you don't see eye to eye on much, do you?"

  "Why do you ask?" he inquired absently.

  "Well, I guess I was just struck by how impressed Derry and Kathleen seem to be with Ezra's psychic ability--"

  That snapped his attention back pretty quick. "Not that it is any of your business, but Ezra's talent is not the reason I must so often take him to task. He lacks proper training in spirit communication and will go off on tangents in the midst of a séance--"

  "Séance?" I choked back a laugh. "You guys hold séances?"

  "I do organize the meetings and handle any donations that come our way, as Ezra will not be bothered with the practical side of things."

  "Make a lot in 'donations', do you?"

  "That is certainly no business of yours," Henry retorted, returning to his book.

  "Ezra gave me the impression he didn't take money for his services."

  "Ezra has resources others of us do not."

  "Ah. Inheritance?"

  He sighed and laid a hand on the page to mark his place. "Mr. Nash, I am sorry you're in this position, but I do not intend to turn the intimate details of my life nor Ezra's into a bedtime tale to help you sleep. You will simply have to do your best to get some rest." He put aside the book and his specs. "We have an early morning--"

  "We do?"

  "Yes. You do attend church, I hope?" He extinguished the candle and lay down, pulling the blankets to his chin. Ten minutes had hardly passed before he was snoring. I stared at the shadows flickering on the wallpaper and considered a brief sojourn to the bathroom, but that felt just a little too weird. Not that I hadn’t made use of what a friend of mine referred to as the natural sedative in some fairly unusual places and granted, I could be quiet about it when I had to, but this whole situation was too damned surreal and for all I knew, I could end up arrested for that, too.

  Deciding to stay put, I finally drifted off, only to wake in the dead of night with a need to use the bathroom for a more conventional purpose. I made it without waking anyone--or at least so I thought. On my way back, I saw the gleam of light under Ezra’s door. Curious, I stood listening, but no sound came from within. Maybe I hadn’t wakened him. Maybe he just slept with the lights on. If I believed in ghosts, I probably would, too.