She nodded, cheek rubbing against the fine lawn of the expensive gentleman’s shirt he’d put on to greet the new team members. “I’m sorry, Malcolm.”
“So,” he sighed, “am I. How much of the station had they managed to search before you had to leave?”
Margo’s description of search efforts on station was interrupted by the shrill of the telephone on the computer console behind them. Hooked into a much more antique-looking telephone in the house above, it was a direct link between the outside world and the vault. Malcolm pulled reluctantly away and snagged the receiver. “Yes?”
It was Hetty Gilbert, co-gatekeeper of the Time Tours Gatehouse. The news she had was even worse than Margo’s. All color drained from Malcolm’s cheeks as he listened. “Oh, dear God. Yes, of course. We’ll come up straight away.”
“What is it?” Margo asked breathlessly as he hung up again.
“Trouble. Very serious trouble.” He glanced at the monitor where, a few hours from now, they hoped to record the identity of Jack the Ripper. Weeks, he’d put in, preparing for that moment. And now it would have to wait. Reluctantly, Malcolm met Margo’s gaze again.
“What is it?” Margo demanded, as if half-afraid to hear the answer.
“We have a tourist missing,” he said quietly. “A male tourist.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Yes. His name is Benny Catlin. The Gilberts are asking for our help with the search teams. Evidently, he has already killed someone in a brutal shooting at the Piccadilly Hotel. A Time Tours driver is in critical condition, should be arriving within minutes for surgery. He managed to telephone from the hotel before he collapsed.”