Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (37 page)

“If this is some ploy to garner the prince’s interest—” the club steward warned, brows furrowed.

“I am involved in an investigation.” She produced the Pinkerton card with her name on it, the one Ralph had created.

The steward stared at it, dumbfounded.

“The case involves stolen explosives. A large amount of which could be used against
the Royal family.
”

The man kept staring at the card. She opened her mouth to give him hell, but then closed it. He was working through the options, and none of them looked attractive from his point of view. If he chucked her out the door and she was legit, he was in for it. If he annoyed the future king with a crazy woman, he might well lose his cushy job.

She greased the wheels. “I consulted on this very issue earlier this evening with Chief Inspector Fisher of Special Branch and Lord Wescomb, a member of Parliament.” Fisher’s and Wescomb’s cards traded hands.

Those cards tipped the scales in her favor. “I shall speak with the prince’s equerry,” the steward announced before heading into the den of nineteenth-century testosterone. She settled on the couch, a heavily brocaded thing with lilies carved into the walnut back. She’d half expected it to have nude nymphs instead.

“Amazing,” her delusion announced, sidling along the piece of furniture. “I figured you’d be out of here in a flash.”

Second miracle of the night.

“This one’s a long shot,” the spider added. “He didn’t answer your note.”

Doesn’t matter. I have to pull out all the stops.

Seven minutes later, the steward returned with another man. She guessed him to be the prince’s equerry and in his hand were the calling cards.

Fortunately, he recognized her from Effington’s party, which was good. She didn’t remember him.

“Miss Lassiter,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Thank you,” she said, itching to get on with this. “I need to speak to the prince, or at least pass a message to him.”

He gave the steward a look and the man took the hint, leaving them alone.

“His Highness received your message this morning.”

“And did not answer me,” she said directly. “With all due respect, sir, this is far beyond polite correspondence.”

As succinctly as possible, Cynda presented the equerry with an overview of why Keats must live to see another day, including Flaherty’s testimony.

Meanwhile, the man fingered the three calling cards. “What is Lord Wescomb doing about this new evidence?”

“He and Fisher are speaking with anyone who will listen to them. They want a stay of execution so the new evidence can be presented. It should lead to Keats’ exoneration.”

“Why would this anarchist come forward?” the man asked bluntly.

“To save his daughter’s life,” she responded.

By the time she’d finished telling him about Fiona, she realized they were not alone. Someone stood at the doorway. How long he’d been there, she was uncertain. Cynda remembered the face from the photos she’d studied in the carriage on the way over. She rose and curtsied deeply. “Your Royal Highness. I apologize for interrupting your evening.”

“Miss Lassiter,” the Prince of Wales acknowledged, his heavy-lidded eyes traveling the length of her in frank appraisal. “You are a very persistent woman.” He indicated the cards in his equerry’s hand. “I was not aware you are with Pinkerton’s.”

“We have kept it rather quiet.”

“So it would appear.” When he moved into the room, the equerry shut the door behind him. “You must know that it would not be proper for me to interfere with the courts.”

“I know, Your Highness; however, if it were known that you are watching this case with considerable interest, there might be a better chance that Sergeant Keats would receive justice.”

His eyes narrowed. “You make it sound as if he has enemies besides the anarchists.”

This is where it got dicey. Bertie had a reputation as a consummate womanizer and he might well have been one of Nicci’s paramours, though according to Alastair, the prince’s calling card was not one of those found in her possession.

“There were a number of…”
Oh hell.
She discarded formality. “I’ll be blunt. There were a lot of bluebloods who were bedding Nicci Hallcox,” she explained, “and they don’t want their names made public. Especially since she had syphilis. Pressure is being brought to bear to ensure Keats dies quickly so that the whole thing can be swept under the rug.”

The future King of England blinked at her extreme candor. “What of the people who actually have the explosives?”

“We’re not sure who they are,” she replied. That really wasn’t a lie. They could look like anyone.
Even you.

The prince moved closer. “You are convinced of this man’s innocence?”

“I am. He’s a good cop, through and through.”

The trace of a smile. “I see you are wearing the necklace I sent you.”

“Yes. It is very pretty.”

“So are you.”

She blinked in surprise. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

He looked over at his equerry and then back. “I think a note will not carry the same weight as a visit from one of my emissaries,” the prince surmised. “I shall have that person discuss the matter with both the Home Office and the PM and ask how they intend to proceed in light of this new evidence.”

Relief washed over her. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

“There is a quid pro quo, however,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

“Dinner?” she asked, hoping that was all he was expecting. It was all he was going to get.

He nodded. “It will not be onerous. In fact, it could be quite pleasant.”

“A meal only, Your Royal Highness.”

He blinked again and then smiled widely. “Exactly. I think it will be more exciting to talk to you about your profession rather than participate in other…pursuits. I can do that with any woman.”

By the time she’d risen from the second curtsy, he was gone, his equerry in tow.

“You’re on a roll,” Mr. Spider said, landing with a plop on her shoulder. “I am impressed.”

Don’t be. Unless Keats is alive at 8:01 in the morning, this is all theatrics.

Tuesday, 6 November, 1888

Near Stock

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Mr. Posh Detective,” Ramsey said, detangling a thorn bush from his suit. It was one of his better ones.
By the time we get done here, it’ll be the worst.

“I think I miss Chicago more than I realized,” Anderson replied, removing thorns of his own.

Ramsey had to agree. Summoned out of his bed by the chief inspector, he’d been stunned to hear Flaherty had confirmed the sergeant’s alibi. Based on the two Fenians’ statements, Ramsey had been charged with finding the coffin in the woods near Stock.

In the middle of the bloody night.

Knowing how difficult it would be, he’d brought Anderson with him, figuring the Pinkerton fellow might as well get some exercise. After all, if he was going to be miserable, he’d make sure others were as well. Inspectors were very good at that sort of thing.

Around them, a group of ten men from the local pub were working through the underbrush, fueled by alcohol and the promise of a sizeable breakfast come morning. The pair who found the coffin would get five quid each and their names in the
Chicago Herald
. That would bring any man out into the forest.

Between scrabbling over wooden fences and tangling with the various nasty bushes, it’d been hours of frustration for all. Four of the searchers had given up and headed back to town. Ramsey couldn’t blame them. As for himself, he’d stay until daylight, when it would be too late.

When he next looked around, Anderson was gone. Ramsey groaned.

Just my luck; he’s going to get lost, and I’ll get the blame.

“Where the hell are you, Anderson?”

“Where you should be—standing by the coffin,” the man called back.

“What? Keep calling out,” Ramsey bellowed. Anderson continued to chide him as the inspector charged through the bushes like an enraged bear. Branches slapped at his face and pulled at his clothes. He made it to the clearing at the same time as the other men. The American was kneeling next to an overturned coffin, a smug grin on his face.

“Good thing I came along,” he joked. “You Limeys couldn’t find your behinds with both hands.”

“Oh, sod off,” Ramsey laughed, still catching his breath. “Are you any good at sketching scenes, Anderson?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Positioning the men and their lanterns to best effect, Ramsey examined the area around their find. He spied two strips of red cloth.
One for the hands, one for the mouth.
Just like one of the Fenians had said in his statement. Ramsey pocketed them. Setting his own lantern aside, he knelt and slowly righted the toppled coffin. Anderson leaned closer, pencil scratching rapidly in his notebook.

“You, bring that lantern closer,” Ramsey ordered. One of the locals complied, illuminating a dark stain on the coffin’s interior. “I think that might be blood,” he proposed.

“Probably from the blow to his face,” Anderson agreed.

Ramsey nodded. “Can you imagine waking up in this thing? I’d have pissed myself.”

“There, on the inside of the lid,” Anderson pointed, “it looks like a boot imprint.”

Keats, you lucky little bastard.
Ramsey would bet a month’s pay the marks would match one of the boots from the pawnbroker’s.

The inspector looked up into a row of anxious eyes. The men were shuffling from one foot to another to deal with the cold. “This is it, gents. You’ve done it. Let’s get it on the wagon and back to town. I’ll pay you all fiver and treat everyone to breakfast.”

A throaty cheer erupted from the group. A couple of men hoisted the coffin while another picked up the damaged lid.

Ramsey rose. “We’ve got everything we need.” Anderson’s troubled expression reined in his triumph. “We’ve got time, don’t we?”

“It’s just after five in the morning,” the reporter observed. “It will be a near thing for the telegram to arrive in time to halt the execution.”

Ramsey’s roar of frustration rent the forest, scattering birds from the treetops.

~••~••~••~

In the distance, Alastair could see the faint stirrings of dawn. If there had ever been a day that he wished he would never see, it was this one. Despite their very best efforts, his best friend would die this morning.

He’d come to know Keats quite by accident. He had appeared at the door of Alastair’s free clinic one evening, helping a limping constable. The man had broken his ankle and was in considerable pain. While Alastair treated him, Keats had asked all sorts of questions, all with a purpose, now that he thought about it. The sergeant had been testing him, finding out what sort of person he was. All through that first meeting, he’d acted the part of a fop out for a night’s jolly in Whitechapel. It wasn’t until Jacynda arrived earlier this fall that he’d learned Keats’ true vocation. Once they’d crossed that hurdle, their friendship had deepened.

Which only makes it harder now.

Behind him, he heard the endless pacing of Lord Wescomb. It was amazing the man was still on the move, given his recent wounding. The three of them—the peer, the doctor, and Kingsbury—had made the rounds until half past three in the morning. They had cajoled and argued with Home Office, met with the Prime Minister, even sent an urgent appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury and to the Queen.

Nothing had come of it.

Nothing.

The pacing stopped.

“We should leave now,” the peer advised in a voice made hoarse by a night’s worth of pleading. “There will be a scrum outside of the prison. We do not want to be caught in that.”

“I would advise you not to attend, my lord. Your health is still at risk,” Alastair said.

Wescomb waved him off. “I must do this. It is my failure, and I must face it head on.”

Alastair nodded somberly, though he disagreed that it had anything to do with Wescomb’s abilities. After one last whispered prayer, he followed the lord down the darkened hallway.

Lady Sephora waited at the foot of the stairs.

“John…”

The peer embraced her with his uninjured arm. “We have done all we can, Sephora. It is truly in God’s hands now.”

A single tear wound its way down her pale cheek. She made no effort to brush it away, allowing it to be joined in a moment by another. And then another.

A most elegant eulogy for our dear friend.

~••~••~••~

As the time drew near, the crowd milled outside the prison like cattle in a tight corral. Cynda guessed there must be at least five hundred Londoners awaiting the death of one man. Some were selling hot potatoes and others broadsheets that supposedly contained Keats’ last words. Still, there was a solemnity here that had been missing at past executions.

To her annoyance, one of her memories returned in full force, reinforced by a particularly vivid run report. The year was 1760, the execution of an earl at Tyburn Hill, west of London. A tourist had insisted he wanted to see a “genuine hanging” and had paid her employers extra for the privilege. Worried what might happen if a junior Rover took the assignment, she’d reluctantly taken the trip.

They’d waited for nearly three hours for the prisoner’s arrival from Newgate as his escort fought their way through the thousands packing the route and the area around the scaffold. During that time, she protected her charge from the dregs of London’s underclass: pickpockets, belligerent drunks, blousy prostitutes hunting customers, robbers, and unscrupulous vendors of all sorts.