It hit him like a boxer, a straight jab to the nose then into the gut. Noxious odors immediately brought the time traveler to his knees. Retching in the shadowed alley, gasping that putrid air in between the vomiting only made the stench worse. He and The Consortium medical staff and historians had anticipated this physical reaction but could not duplicate its fullest capability for debilitating the Scope who’d have to breathe this air. As his nostrils stung, his lungs slowly began adjusting to the new pathogens. The faintest echo, the sound stilled the man. Approaching footsteps. But who the hell was walking through this unsavory part of town at four o’clock in the morning? “It is four, isn’t it?” Ethan reached for his trusted companion, his antique pocket watch.

“Fuck me!” Shocked beyond belief, he inadvertently shouted. Ethan suddenly realizing that he had left his confidant, his friend behind in the closet! The precious timepiece remained where he’d left it, tucked away in the pocket of his 21st Century suit. Hanging there, awaiting his return, it languished unused in a dark, drab corner of the living quarters Ethan called home while preparing for the jump. Not that the timepiece miraculously GPS synchronized with the correct time in this presumed century. It served no real purpose in that respect. That aside, he couldn’t believe it! How could he have possibly forgotten his closest inanimate object? And especially considering Anson had given him permission to take it along, only because it was authentic to the era.

“I sure didn’t expect to find you alone using that type of language.” The voice came from a distance, a dark figure standing at the entrance to the alleyway, carried through the dense fog laden corridor by moist, unbreathable oxygen.

Walking closer, the man continued. “I could hear ya getting sick from down the way. Had a bit too much, have we?” Approaching closer, Ethan could make out the uniform, custodial helmet, insignia and baton indicative of one of London’s finest, a bobby on the beat.

Ethan said silently, “Well, at least the uniform fits the target period.”

Attempting to focus, Ethan rose from his knees. “To the contrary, I think I might need a pint or two.” Mustering a laugh, “I’m fine, officer.”

“Begging your pardon chum, but the contents of your stomach on the ground in front of ya tells me otherwise.”

“Right, well, that being done I feel much better now, thank you.”

“What’s your name, sir?” The constable noticing this man wasn’t dressed in the typical attire for that part of town was busy sizing him up. In fact, Ethan’s wardrobe was something someone of means would be wearing.

“Doctor. Arthur Bridgeman.”

“Doctor Bridgeman, is it? Well then, it seems we’ve begun inviting a far better class of boozer to our end of town.” The constable leaned back on his heels, letting out a rather sardonic, judgmental snicker he didn’t try to hide.

Remembering who he was by title in the future and his present time, it was vital Ethan not stand out and any “doctor” allowing himself to be belittled would come off as strange to an officer patrolling the slums on the graveyard shift. Ethan stood tall, poised and confident. Adjusting his clothing, he picked up his medical bag.

“Perhaps you didn’t hear me, sir. I’ve not been drinking. In fact, I’m quite sober in mind and body and would readily recall details of your features and this dialogue should I happen into a discussion with some of my friends over at Scotland Yard.”

Feeling his position of authority challenged, quickly losing the upper hand, the bobby’s body language and sarcastic tone shifted to one of a subordinate.

“Well sir, best be on your way then, doctor.”

“Yes, constable. Thank you.”

As the bobby continued along down his East End beat, Ethan retrieved his clean handkerchief, wiping off his face of sweat and any residual remnants of the ordeal. If the first few minutes were any indication, his attempt to “keep a low profile” was failing miserably. Ethan took heed of the constable’s advice and began to make his way out of the alley. He was absolutely certain of his location in old London. It was a moment of recognition, having walked the same streets countless times more than one hundred years in the future, during his research and planning phase. “Well, they got the location right. Two down.” Having personally selected the “jump” site, he assessed its obscure, off the beaten path location as safe. During the FTC trials in Oxfordshire the construction crews duplicated these streets from the late 1800’s as depicted in photographs from the era. It was the time in which he found himself but there was no facsimile for what had sickened him, no replica of the pungent smell they couldn’t imagine, let alone mimic.

Under the shroud of night and fog, gaslight streetlamps barely offered a warm glow or a guidepost to each street corner introduced into the scene as he passed but at least Ethan knew he was in Whitechapel. Still flustered by forgetting his watch, he could only surmise that the Flicker calibration was accurate to the second on this jump and it was, indeed, just past four in the morning, 28 August 1888. Looking through several trash heaps along his route, he located a discarded newspaper dated 27 August 1888. Assuming that this morning’s papers had yet to hit the streets, it stood to reason but he needed definitive proof. His discovery of the paper proved he was in the vicinity of the correct time, at least on the same block, metaphorically speaking. How old was this discarded post? A day or a week? He had to be certain. Verify before worry. Follow the clues. Each breadcrumb helped lead him to the fact that he was where he needed to be.

The first item on the agenda was to obtain lodging. Ethan had walked this route endlessly in 21st Century London, his initial destination planned to be in the vicinity of Flower and Dean Streets, seeking a “males only” dormitory that housed only the local warehouse employees. The area surrounding Commercial Street, Bucks Row, and Thrawl Street (where, by consensus, Jack the Ripper’s first victim Mary Ann Nichols resided last before being evicted for not paying the daily rent of four pence) was especially seedy. The lodgings of that period in a dark, villainous, crime-ridden East End of London were primarily gender specific, an attempt to identify and avoid prostitution activity, though many inns had no choice but to offer double occupancy to accommodate married couples, making it nearly impossible for local police and proprietors alike to distinguish who was whom.

With good fortune and keen observation, Ethan saw a man sitting alone reading in a dimly lit recess of one dormitory on Dorset Street. Historical records identified this man as the innkeeper. Someone of a sullied reputation trying to rehabilitate into society, he’d been hired, no doubt, cheaply by the owner of the property who would never be caught dead in this part of town. He appeared to be a rather shady character though he seemed harmless enough.

“Good, eh, morning sir?” The man seemed puzzled in not too different a manner as the bobby Ethan encountered, due to his attire and his early hour of arrival.

“Yes, I was wondering if you might have a room available.” Ethan inquired.

“Yes sir. The rate is sixpence per night. Coming in at such an early time, I have to charge you eight to cover the extra.”

Ethan reached into his billfold, careful not to expose the total of his funds. He could’ve easily paid for his lodging until his time for departure but that again would stir suspicion. Additionally, in this unsavory part of the city, word could get around regarding a gentleman of means residing among them and his safety would become of paramount concern. To lay low and play it safe was the passive plan of action.

“There you are.” Handing the innkeeper exact currency, Ethan smiled.

With an indecisive look, the man handed Ethan a modest key crafted from lesser metals with the room number “319” carved into it.

“Up the stairs, third floor, down the hall to your right.”

“Good on ya. Do you have a working common kitchen on the first floor?”

“A sitting area.” Having been paid, he no longer seemed interested in engaging in banter with this stranger so he went back to his paper.

Before he stepped away, Ethan noticed the front page of the newspaper the man was reading was the same he’d found in the trash.

“Is that today’s paper, perchance?” Ethan probed.

“Yesterday.” Shaking his head in disbelief for a daft question. “Today’s don’t come out for a couple of hours yet.” He was in the right and proper time and place.

Entering through the guest doorway, whatever critical remarks he made silently earlier about the smell of the streets immediately abandoned his mind with what hit his nose as he entered the stairwell. A composition of odors that, in the 21st Century from whence he’d come just minutes earlier could have been used as toxic chemical weaponry, it was nothing less than an attack on the senses. Feces, urine, mildew, sex, animals and some sort of nasty cheese, Ethan held onto the railing as his knees buckled. Turning right then down the hallway of the third floor, the early morning hours presented a surprising cacophony of sounds. Coughing, snoring and a subtle murmuring was all he could discern before reaching his room.

Opening the door, it was a pleasant surprise. The space was relatively well kept, aged, but well kept. Though bare, the walls and ceiling were stained but thankfully, not the sheets. A narrow closet was just in the entryway to the right. A small writing desk was flush to the left wall with the bed and night table positioned at the far end of the room. If time travel had jetlag, Ethan certainly suffered the ill effects of this malady. It was time to rest. He reclined on the bed, instantly falling sound asleep.

Morning was hazy, as though the fog of nighttime air had made its way through the window past the flimsy curtains, creeping into the room as a shrouded vampire. Was it still morning? Ethan wondered, reaching for his timepiece, a force of habit. Missing in action, every reminder of that oversight left a festering thorn in his side. The momentary calm, a relative quiet in the lodge soon transformed into sounds of arguing, crying, laughing, an array of tawdry emotional outbursts. Sliding his legs off the bed, he allowed his feet to strike the wooden floor with no concern for the tenant beneath him. Rising to his feet required effort. The only window was just on the other side of the night table, facing Dorset Street. Pacing himself, Ethan slowly walked in its direction, still nauseated from his landing on this strange planet, forced to breathe the atmosphere. Peering down, whatever the time, the street below was a parade of activities. A typically bustling city street on any 21st Century Tuesday, why wouldn’t it be the same for this 19th Century Tuesday, as well? Oh! The smell! For a minute he’d forgotten until it slapped him in the face again.

Ethan was not yet prepared to leave any of his items in the room, even though it would probably be his lodging for the next few months, barring any incident that may necessitate moving to avoid drawing undue attention to himself. He thought it best to always bring his medical bag along or find somewhere safer to keep it. The job at hand, the purpose of his visit was overrun with responsibilities in these few days leading up to the first believed murder victim of Jack the Ripper. But first, he wondered how a cup of coffee in this century would taste. Locking his room even though he left nothing behind to steal, Ethan meandered down a disgusting stairwell again, listening to the sounds of life around him. Reaching ground level of the inn, he was met by a different innkeeper who’d likely relieved the night watchman.

“Good morning, sir.” The much older gentleman with white overgrown hair and a beard framing his chubby face seemed pleasant enough. “You’re not from around here...need any directions?”

“Yes. Good morning, sir.” Ethan said. “You wouldn’t by chance have the time? I seem to have forgotten my watch.”

“If you’re accusing one of the tenants of stealing from your room I will have to get the local magistrate.” Suddenly on the defensive, the man scoffed at Ethan.

“No, no. Not at all. I actually forgot my watch in my, eh, travels.”

“Don’t own a watch myself.” The man said calmly. “It’s around nine or so.”

“Thank you, kindly. I need to find a new watch. Is there a jeweler in the area?”

“Several located on Commercial Street a few streets over.”

“Of course, over on Commercial Street. Thank you, sir.” Ethan felt dimwitted not thinking of it himself. Instead, feeling like the stranger in a strange land, he had to remind himself that he’d researched the locale and knew these streets intimately well. Yet, he found it oddly disorienting, being there in real time.

Indeed, there were a few jewelry shops on Commercial Street but there was also one quaint, unassuming little shop. It captured his attention. Drawn in by an awning, it called to him from across the road, his best bet to find a dependable timepiece to replace a treasured keepsake. Ethan felt its conspicuous absence. He felt undressed without it, exposed without being wrapped inside a chronological security blanket he needed to function normally.

Greeted by a brass bell attached at the top of the door, the shopkeeper notified as someone entered his establishment, Ethan closed it more gently. Most repair and design shops did the bulk of their craftwork in a back room out of view of the public and the front of the shop displayed items reserved for sale. As Ethan began looking around, both hands holding the medical bag behind his back, the good doctor was startled by the deep, bellowing voice coming through a doorway, originating from behind heavy black drapes. Listening to an inflection in the first few words uttered, the irritated intonation was unmistakable. The man behind the curtain sounded a bit annoyed, distracted by the interruption of his handiwork by a potential customer.

“Yes, yes...I’ll be right there.”

Ethan continued to scan the superior craftsmanship on display, wall clocks hung beside grandfather clocks standing tall and proud. Other assorted timepieces tucked away inside glass cases, as he walked through the shop his awareness was drawn to the music, a cacophony of sounds blending together like members of a symphony. The tick tock was mesmerizing, the sound of time keeping itself. Every timepiece synchronized, he smiled, admiring the obsessive / compulsive precision, attention to detail, imagining what it must sound like at the stroke of noon...and midnight! Loud enough to wake the dead, no doubt! He finally had the correct time: 9:42 a.m.

Emerging from behind the curtained door a little old man with a cane appeared. The elderly gentleman propped himself beside the sales counter. Donning a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, crafting spectacles attached to them, snow white hair cropped short, his receding hairline and liberal moustache were timeless. He could’ve easily passed for any one of a variety of professors back at Oxford University. Holding an object inside a buffing cloth, his hands were moving, stroking the metal surface in a circular pattern. As Ethan approached he could see the shopkeeper’s intense focus was on polishing a pocket watch with great skill and care.

“Are you from the tax office?” Obviously suspicious, he raised an eyebrow.

“No.” Answering the question inquisitively, Ethan realized he was being sized up again, head to toe, as finely adorned as the timepiece the man was holding. In a manner much like the way he’d been scrutinized by the constable and the innkeeper, Ethan suddenly understood that he was too polished for Whitechapel.

“You look like a tax official.” His apprehension had not subsided.

“I assure you, sir. I am not.”

“Scotland Yard, then?” He did not attempt to disguise his skepticism.

“Goodness, no! I’m just a patron hunting for a pocket watch.”

Looking somewhat less dubious but guarded, keeping a keen eye on the stranger in front of him, the gentleman came around the counter. Laying the watch aside, he extended his right hand in a less hostile, more cordial greeting. In so doing, Ethan placed his medical bag on the counter to free the hand he needed to reciprocate the gesture. With that, the shopkeeper achieved clarity, his trepidation put to rest.

“Well hello, doctor, is it? Drakes. Joseph Drakes at your service.”

“Arthur Bridgeman. How do you do?”

“Fine, fine. You said you’re looking for a pocket watch, sir?”

“Indeed. Something sturdy and reliable.”

“Are you speaking of a watch or a woman?” Drakes joked, cutting the tension he’d originally infused between them.

Ethan smiled broadly in response to his humorous comment. Even though more than a century separated them, funny was still funny. The old man disappeared once more behind the curtain into the mysterious back room. Ethan heard him shuffling things around on his bench, in search of something. Since his arrival, this was truly the first time Ethan felt at ease, looking at the situation for what it was. Surrounded by ghosts from over a hundred years ago, people who were living spirits, long dead before he was born, this was that rare gem of a privilege to speak with living history, an amazing opportunity. After a few minutes the watchmaker reappeared, grinning, about to make the sale. Holding a wooden case lined in soft, dark velvet, filled with pocket watches, he placed it open on the counter. Gold and silver embossed casings, some with the fobs attached, others not, it was a fine vintage collection.

“These are my finest watches, sir. Not much demand for them lately, I’m afraid. The pricing is fair, not for style but rather the precision-timing within each piece.”

“I don’t care about the style. Accuracy is invaluable to me.”

“Oh there’s a value, to be sure. It is how I pay my rent.”

Laying the watches out on the counter, one after another, Ethan suddenly found himself in a weird time warp, a distorted reality. His body went numb with his mind. Bracing against the edge of the counter with both hands, he stared in disbelief, sheer bewilderment at what laid on the velvet in front of him. His antique pocket watch, what he’d forgotten in a suit left behind at the LHC quarters, was staring right back at him, its silver cover embossed in relief with a three-legged horse. His most prized possession, a one-of-a-kind piece had found its way back to him.

“Are you alright, sir?” With no response, Drakes asked again. “Dr. Bridgeman? Is anything wrong?”

“Where did you find this one?” Ethan queried as he pointed out his familiar old friend, almost afraid to touch it, should it disappear through the veil, the shear fabric of space and time torn asunder, strands unraveling with the paradox.

“I know a chap who owns a shop in Paris. He trades with me to suit my requests for foreign designs. This one’s an original. Never seen one like it before. A beauty.”

“Indeed.” Still in shock, Ethan could barely utter the single word. His mind was cluttered with thoughts. How did this happenstance fit into the cosmos? What were the calculated odds that he would randomly choose this shop to enter then be given the timepiece he’d found six years earlier in the window of an antique shop during one of his many late night walks? He did not believe in coincidence. No such thing. Time was on his side.

Drakes handed him the timepiece, as his customer was obviously attracted to it. Rolling it over in his hand, relishing their reunion, its weight in his palm, there was no doubt about it. The pocket watch was his own. He knew it the instant he touched the case. It was his three-legged horse, a long lost companion inexplicably returning to him.

“To me, you are Father Time, Drakes.” Ethan chuckled, opening the cover to admire the delicate features of a miniature clock he’d sorely missed.

“Oddly enough sir, that’s what my wife calls me.”

“I’ll take it, Drakes.”

“Oh! Don’t you want to know the cost of it, my good man?” Curious, Drakes wondered why his eager customer was so charmed by this particular pocket watch, though he was more than ready to make a monetary transaction, suddenly excited by the prospect of a sale, funds to add to his meager coffers and so early in the day!

“How much for it then?” Ethan reached for his wallet before the answer came.

“Twenty schillings.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Ethan reached for the correct currency without a word, pulling an ample amount from his billfold.

“It’s a fair price sir, I assure you.” The jeweler misinterpreted Ethan’s reaction.

“Without question. I expected it to be more. Here. A tip for your trouble.”

“No trouble, sir. Happy to be of service!”

Generous even before he’d been born, Ethan made the day, perhaps that entire week for a humble shopkeeper scraping out a living in the shabby East End.

“Would you like it wrapped, Dr. Bridgeman?” Drakes kindly offered.

A bit startled, Ethan knew he would have to adjust to being directly addressed by his new name. He’d have to get used to this 1888 identity, a whole new persona. It is one thing to rehearse a role and quite another to step onto the stage in front of a live audience!

“No, thank you, Drakes. I’ll keep it on my person.”

“If I may, while you are in Whitechapel, perhaps you should keep it concealed. Your attire is advertisement enough that you’re a man of means. Keep your distance from others...there are more than a few who’d like to pick a pocket or two.”

“Duly noted, sir.” Attaching the fob to his trousers, Ethan tucked his new watch discreetly away into his pocket, where it belonged and where it would stay.

In 2014 he’d paid nearly three hundred and eighty pounds for this timepiece the first time around, giving all new meaning to the word inflation. Approximate to the time, twenty schillings was equivalent to two weeks average pay. Basically he was paying for the watch again with what he was taxed on the purchase as an antique in the future, a very small price to pay for something he considered priceless.

“Thank you, sir.” Mr. Drakes tucked the money away beneath the counter.

Glancing down at his attire once he’d attached the watch, Ethan understood why Drakes took the trouble to forewarn him. The Consortium’s decision to provide him with such high class clothing for leverage sake, assuming the persona of a physician should he be in the precarious scenario of being questioned by local authorities, he stood out in a crowd. Having precisely the opposite effect intended, Ethan knew he was far too conspicuous, an easy mark. He did not blend into the environment at all and he needed to for his research. Time to readdress the dress and make a change.

“Yes, of course. By any chance...”

“I’ll give you the address of a tailor on Hutton Street. The bloke who owns it is named Thomas Clemens. He will put you in more appropriate attire for this area.”

Ethan saw the wisdom in Drake’s eyes and heard the perception of his words. He’d found a confidant, a ghostly friend from the past with whom he could confer over the coming months. Though Drakes was aware this man wasn’t indigenous to the area, to what degree, he had no idea. Writing a location on a scrap of paper, he handed it to his a little too well-to-do customer then sent him on his way, ready to return to his former task at hand, the watch he’d just repaired, polishing off his own fingerprints from the timepiece.

“Thank you, Mr. Drakes. How very kind of you. I bid you a fond farewell.”

As Ethan began to make his way through the shop toward the door, he paused, listening once again to the soothing sounds surrounding him, each clock precisely set. Turning back toward the jeweler, Ethan smiled then made an amusing comment of his own.

“By the way, my good man, would you happen to have the correct time?”

The shopkeeper laughed heartily as he glanced around his noisy shop.

“I can see your dilemma!” Drakes played along, popping open the timepiece he held in his hand. “Looks like 9:58, Dr. Bridgeman. Right on time. Wait a moment! You will hear what ten o’clock sounds like in my humble business establishment!”

Adjusting his precious timepiece, his new, old pocket watch, Ethan graciously waved goodbye then walked out the door, brass bell tinkling as he closed it behind him. Standing there beneath the unassuming pale green awning that had called him across Commercial Street that morning, he listened as the chimes inside the shop began tolling the ten o’clock hour of his first full day in the 19th Century.

“For whom the bell tolls...it tolls for thee.” Recalling the words of Hemingway, Ethan smiled and shook his head in earnest, knowing a favorite author wouldn’t be born until 1899, in another eleven years. A fortuitous day, to say the least, Ethan’s mind was still reeling with the notion that he’d reacquired his trusted companion as he left what was now a safe haven. Turning back toward the direction of his lodging, should he continue down Commercial, the tailor shop Drakes recommended would be a few streets over on the other side of Whitechapel Road.

If memory served, Ethan also recalled another fine establishment along the way. Feeling slightly lightheaded, hearing the beginnings of the grumbling coming from his stomach, he knew he wasn’t too far away from the famous Ten Bells Pub. Being more attentive to his surroundings, he soon came upon one of the few landmarks of old London’s East End business district, a place still standing and in full operation in the 21st Century. Over the centuries of existence since its grand opening in 1752, “Ten Bells” had worn many hats, only to return to its roots as a common drinking spot and victual house, popular with locals and tourists alike. Claiming its notoriety as one place Jack the Ripper’s victims were known to frequent, the pub was located on the corner of a row of four-story buildings a stone’s throw away from his abode. It was calling him, the perfect spot for some much needed nourishment. And coffee!

The word “pub” originated from the word “public” noting that the upstairs also housed tenants as a common domicile, therefore, the eatery was open at all hours for every meal, including breakfast. Including coffee! For a time, from 1976 to 1988 the pub had a change of name to “The Jack the Ripper” but was later restored to the original name with no negative connotation and it has remained so ever since.

Stepping into history within history, Ethan was greeted by a woman who rivaled any stein maiden working at a German beer festival.

“Mornin’, love. Don’t you look fancy? Come in for some dining, sir?” The bar maid bowed in mild mockery, speaking proper English in reaction to Ethan’s attire.

Ethan thought silently, “I’ve got to get to that tailor next!” then spoke aloud,

“Yes please, some coffee to begin.”

“Sure thing, love. Be back to ya right away. Find a seat...doc.”

A medical bag gave away his identity again. Wondering if it was a friend or foe, Ethan located a small table by the window then pulled the journal out of his vest pocket. The Consortium held all of his items, including his personal journal, stored in his tiny LHC quarters, safe and sound. Supplying him instead with an authentic antique, the beautiful leather-bound journal of premium quality, befitting a man of means, he loved the feel of it. The pencil, also indicative of the era, felt a bit slight in his hand compared with his own but he admired its slender elegance. The doctor was satisfied with selections made on his behalf. He knew if he needed to replenish anything he could do so directly from this time period, an age when anything he’d need was available to him. Instructed to bring all items back to the future with him, with that passing thought, Ethan began to make his first entry in the 19th Century.

***

Journal Entry ˜ 28 August 1888

The sensation of the surreal has melted away. In my first six hours I have come across a cast of characters Oxford thespians would salivate to observe and embody their existence on stage. From the constable to the innkeeper to my newfound friend the watchmaker who returned a good old friend to me! I’ve seemingly been able to speak to the dead as one of them.

As this is my first journal entry during my research, I am compelled to note to The Consortium that future trials in The Valley must, and I strongly urge, must add more focus to recreating the pungent odors relating to the Scopes research timeline and destination. Holy hell! The bloody smell!!

Three days until the first JTR victim. I will do multiple walks in daylight to find my best vantage point so not to be seen yet have an escape route afterward with the same advantage. I will only survey the area one time at night. Tonight. It will allow me to determine where the shadows are darkest. Too many returns to the scene of the crime increases the chance of being spotted and becoming another suspect.

For the time being my priorities favor far less conspicuous clothing and fewer public appearances. I intend to restrict my movement to my lodgings and this place to dine and caffeinate. Only by necessity will I initiate dialogue with those I deem a priority for local assistance. I will only alter from my normal routine to get to the scene of each sequential event. In the meantime, the coffee I ordered here at Ten Bells Pub has arrived. GOT MY WATCH BACK! Was I supposed to leave it behind? My brain hurts. Too much deep thought before coffee.

***