The Time Traveller (Part Two)

I hesitated, my heart suddenly racing. Could it be Emily returning for her photographs? I glanced down at the portrait in my hand, those defiant dark eyes staring back at me, then placed it carefully on the side table before moving to answer the door.

The bell rang again, more insistently this time.

'Coming!' I called, trying to keep my voice steady.

I opened the door to find my wife standing there, her hair damp from the earlier rain, a concerned expression on her face.

'Oh, thank goodness,' she said. 'I was beginning to worry. Why was the door locked?'

I'd been so caught up in my encounter with Emily and the discovery of the photographs that I'd completely forgotten she was due back from her sister's this evening.

'Sorry, Joanna,' I said, stepping aside to let her in. 'I was just... preoccupied.'

She gave me a curious look as she removed her coat. 'Everything alright?'

'Yes, fine,' I replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. 'Just had an unexpected visitor earlier. A young woman who got the wrong address.'

Joanna hung her coat on the rack and moved into the living room. 'Oh? What was she after?'

'She was looking for The Broad Elms. Came about some watercolour advertised in the Observer.'

Joanna's eyes fell on the dismantled frame and broken glass on the coffee table. 'What happened there?'

I explained about the door slamming and the picture falling. I hesitated, then added, 'Actually, I found something rather interesting inside.'

I showed her the photographs. She examined them with mild interest, but none of the excitement I felt.

'How odd,' she said. 'Someone must have hidden them there years ago.'

'Yes, but look at this one,' I said, pointing to the portrait of Emily.

Joanna squinted at the photograph.

'The young woman who came to the door earlier... she looked exactly like this.'

Joanna gave me a patient smile, the kind reserved for when she thought I was being fanciful. 'What a coincidence,' she said, clearly humouring me.

'It's more than that,' I insisted. 'And look at the location written on the painting — Selly Oak. That's where she said she was from.'

'Darling, lots of people come from the Midlands,' Joanna said, handing the photographs back to me. 'I'm going to make some tea. Would you like some?'

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the photographs and my thoughts. I stared at Emily's portrait again. There was no doubt in my mind – it was her. But how was that possible?

The doorbell rang again.

I froze. Joanna called from the kitchen, 'Are you expecting someone?'

'No,' I replied, my mouth suddenly dry.

I moved to the door and opened it slowly. Standing there was a tall, elderly gentleman with silver hair and blue eyes. He wore an old-fashioned tweed suit that looked as if it had seen better days.

'Good evening,' he said, his voice cultured but with a hint of an accent I couldn't quite place. 'I believe you had a visitor earlier today. A young woman.'

My pulse quickened. 'Who's asking?'

The man smiled. 'My name is Simmington, Professor James Simmington. I'm a... colleague of Emily's. May I come in?'

I hesitated, but curiosity got the better of me. I stepped aside to let him enter.

'Thank you,' he said, stepping into the hallway. He glanced around with evident interest, as if cataloguing every detail.

'My wife's just making tea,' I said. 'Would you care for some?'

'That would be most kind,' he replied.

I led him into the living room, acutely aware of the photographs still lying on the side table. Simmington's gaze immediately fell upon them, and something flickered across his face – recognition, perhaps, or concern.

'I see you've made a discovery,' he said quietly.

'You know about these?' I asked.

He nodded slowly. 'I've been looking for them for quite some time. As has Emily.'

Joanna appeared in the doorway. 'Oh, we have another visitor?'

I introduced the Professor, explaining he was a colleague of the young woman who'd visited earlier.

'I'll fetch another cup,' Joanna said, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Once she was gone, Simmington leaned forward. 'I must ask you to give me those photographs,' he said, his voice low and urgent. 'They're more important than you might imagine.'

'Why?' I asked. 'What's so special about them?'

He sighed, removing his glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief. 'I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you they're evidence of temporal displacement?'

'You mean time travel?' I said flatly.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. 'You're familiar with the concept?'

'I've read H.G. Wells,' I replied. 'And I've met Emily.'

A smile tugged at his lips. 'Ah, yes. Emily has that effect on people. She makes the impossible seem plausible.'

'So it's true then? She's a time traveller?'

Simmington replaced his glasses. 'In a manner of speaking. Though "traveller" suggests a certain degree of control that Emily doesn't possess.'

'I don't understand.'

'Emily doesn't travel through time voluntarily,' he explained. 'She's caught in what we call a temporal loop. She exists simultaneously in multiple time periods, moving between them without control or understanding of why.'

I glanced at the photographs. 'And these?'

'Physical anchors,' he said. 'They help stabilise her presence at a particular time. Without them, she drifts, like a ship without a rudder.'

Joanna returned with the tea tray. The professor fell silent, accepting a cup with a polite 'thank you'. I could see Joanna studying him curiously as she settled into her armchair.

'So, Professor Simmington,' she said, 'what brings you to our door so late in the evening?'

Simmington took a sip of his tea before answering. 'I'm researching local history. When I heard about your visitor asking about a watercolour, I thought perhaps it might be connected to my work.'

It was a smooth lie, delivered with perfect conviction. Joanna seemed satisfied, but I couldn't help wondering what else the man might be hiding.

'And is it?' Joanna asked. 'Connected to your work?'

'Potentially,' he replied. 'May I?' He gestured toward the watercolour.

I handed it to him, and he examined it carefully, turning it over in his hands. 'Fascinating,' he murmured. 'The artist captured it perfectly.'

'Captured what?' I asked.

'The moment,' he said cryptically. 'May 1861. A rather significant month in Selly Oak's history.'

'Why's that?' Joanna asked, now genuinely interested.

Simmington's eyes met mine over the rim of his teacup. 'It was when the fire happened.'

To be continued…