Crime and Prejudice

by David Barber

Finding coursework for Alternate History 101 was taxing Professor Bradshaw’s patience.

“Ah, here’s an Alternate where the Beatles split up...” He glanced up from his screen.

Sherman grimaced. “I was hoping for something, you know, a bit more academic.”

The Courts had offered Sherman the choice between school and lockup. But now he needed the grades. And to retain tenure, Professor Bradshaw taught the Outreach Class. They were icebergs to each other’s Titanic.

“When you say more academic...”

The previous semester, Professor Tate had set an essay comparing the character of Mr Darcy in different Alternates. Turns out this Darcy guy was the hero of an Austen book, which had gotten Sherman onto how you could still be a hero without superpowers. Like Philip Marlowe. He’d enjoyed writing it.

“Got a D from Prof Tate because it wasn’t about Joan Austen.”

“Jane,” murmured Professor Bradshaw absently. Tate was rumoured to have a publishing deal for her Austen book.

“She mentioned your Lincoln paper.”

“Oh?”

Lincoln: An Alternates Case Study, argued it wasn’t inevitable he’d become President, or even a politician. Of course a book would need a snappier title. He’d toyed with Lincoln, Struggle With Destiny.

“In fact, she roasted it. Said Austen was destined to be a writer. Alternates prove it.”

Bradshaw was stung. “Well, determinism is faddish these days. The evidence from Alternates is open to interpretation.”

“Anyway, I need a solid grade, you know?”

For a while there was just the slow squeak of the Professor’s chair as he swivelled back and forth. Tate treated Austen as her private preserve, and Bradshaw’s postgrads were too savvy to step on her toes. But whatshisname here...

“She’s not a writer in every Alternate. I’m sure Professor Tate would be interested to know why.”

* * *

The technician looked up from her keyboard and Sherman grinned winningly. He had a thing for clever women.

He hesitated in front of the glowing circle.

“So, what’s to stop me going back and shooting my grandad?”

“It’s an Alternate time-line,” snapped the technician. “If paradoxes were possible, we wouldn’t let someone like you anywhere near.”

He pulled at the collar of his Regency costume. The auto-return, disguised as a Hunter fob watch was safe in his jacquard waistcoat. He patted it again to make sure.

She narrowed her eyes. “You watched the training video, right?”

He gave her the finger and stepped into the light.

* * *

“You are an American relative of Samuel Blackall, a clergyman who showed some interest in Austen,” said the AI in his earpiece. “Which permits an introduction.”

“The Assembly Rooms will be crowded.” (mirrored candle flames and hot faces)

“Through there, the Card Room.” (the racket subsides)

“The Buffet...” (a mouthful of food is no hindrance to conversation) “and here is the Ball Room.”

“She liked to dance, but now sits out. That is her in the rose muslin, beside her sister, Cassandra. Note the intelligence in her eye, as if she is saving up conversations and small incidents to earn interest on the page.”

“What, the plain one?”

The AI seemed miffed. “And stop touching this earpiece.”

The room was stiflingly hot. and Sherman drank punch until the sister went out for a piss.

“Ms Austen? Name’s Sherman. Cousin of Sam Blackall, you know?”

It seemed she had never actually met the Reverend Blackall, though a mutual acquaintance had several times tried to arrange it.

“Unless his regard — which appears to spring from knowing nothing about me — is best supported by never meeting me,” she was saying.

The room swayed. It was the heat. The punch. His collar. He flopped into Cassandra’s chair. “Need to sit down.”

She studied him. “And you are his American cousin?”

Wrestling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his forehead, a dog-eared graphic novel fell to the floor.

“Detective Tales,” she read. “What is this?”

Head on one side, she listened intently, her clever gaze searching his face as he turned pages, trying to explain about the hero on mean streets.

“And these crimes, this is what they write about in America?”

The sister came back, and he remembered his coursework.

“Jane and I have discussed her writing,” interrupted Cassandra. “And it is no way to get a husband.”

“A woman as talented as you, Tate’s right, you were meant to be a writer.”

“You are intoxicated,” accused Cassandra. “Else you would not think this pamphlet suitable for a lady.”

“You’re wasted here,” said Sherman recklessly. “Come to America—”

Cassandra stood. “Come, Jane, we are leaving!” Tomorrow there was embroidery to finish and a visit to their great aunt for afternoon tea.

“I have forgotten my gloves,” said Jane, and turned back.

* * *

“Just keep walking,” Sherman muttered as they stepped through the bright ring.

This technician was late into his shift. He yawned at the costumed pair.

“I need pen and paper before I forget,” said Miss Austen impatiently. “So Elizabeth Bennet suspects Mr Darcy of murdering his wife for her inheritance, but no one believes her — and this is rather clever — whom he then makes love to because—”

“Because it is a truth universally acknowledged,” said Sherman, “that a wife-murderer in possession of a fortune must be in want of a second wife to stop her testifying against him.”

Despite the hangover headache, despite the trouble he was in, Sherman knew this was his finest hour.