Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (7 page)

“Is Keats innocent?”

“That’s what I have to find out.” Ramsey hesitated for only a moment before detailing the sergeant’s alibi.

Anderson mulled on the information as they continued down the street.

“It sounds fantastical,” he noted after some time.

“I agree.”

Anderson arched an eyebrow. “I understand that you and Sergeant Keats have an adversarial relationship. That, in fact, you detest each other.”

Ramsey eyed him. The reporter seemed to be very well informed for someone hailing from Chicago. How much had Warren told him?

“We can’t stand each other. Been that way since the first time I saw the little runt.”

“What if he murdered that woman?”

“Then everything I’ve worked for over the past fifteen years goes to hell. It throws mud on all of us, don’t you see?”

They paused at an intersection, waiting for a lorry to pass.

“I’ll keep an open mind, Inspector,” Anderson replied.

“Good.” Dodging between a hansom and a brougham, Ramsey followed up with, “Do me a favor, will you?”

“Which is?” Anderson said, hurrying to catch up.

“Remind me to do the same.”

~••~••~••~

“My chest is much better,” Mrs. Butler said. She was sitting at the flimsy table in her minuscule hovel she and her son called home. “I’m coughing less and I don’t have to take that medicine you gave me.”

“Excellent,” Alastair replied, pleased his treatment had a good result. Chest infections were often fatal. “I have some news of my own,” he began.

Then he blurted it all out in a rush, though he’d not intended to. He still didn’t believe it himself. As he gave Mrs. Butler time to gather her wits, his mind flashed back to their initial meeting. In truth, he’d met her son first, as the lad lay in a street with a broken leg. His tending the boy had cost him his position with Dr. Hanson who had long frowned on his charity work. Despite Hanson’s theory that the poor were indolent and gin-soaked wretches, he’d found Mrs. Butler to be a hardworking woman. She’d already lost a husband and two other children to illness and that had bred a tenacity for survival.

“You bought a house?” she asked wistfully.

“No, no,” he replied. “I’m only a tenant. I cannot afford a house of my own.”

She stared at him with open-mouthed incomprehension. The concept of possessing even enough funds to rent a house was beyond her ken.

Davy, now all of twelve, understood immediately.

“You need a maid,” he said brightly.

Alastair beamed. The lad was always quick on the uptake.

“Actually, I’ll need a housekeeper, and I want you, Mrs. Butler, if you’re willing.”

Her eyes widened further. “Me?”

“Yes. The house is very pleasant. Eight rooms, plus space for my clinic. I know your health is not strong enough to handle everything, so I will allocate funds to hire a maid-of-all-work to do the heavy tasks.”

Mrs. Butler blinked, her mind clearly awhirl. “A whole house? Near the train station?”

“Yes. Reuben…Dr. Bishop assures me that most of the street’s residents are of a decent nature. I would not bring you or your son into a situation that was not to your liking.”

Mrs. Butler’s attention roamed around the one-room Bury Street hovel in which they lived. Mold laced its way down one wall, and the single broken window had a rag stuffed in it to keep out the cold. Loathsome things lived inside the walls. Alastair could hear shouts from some brawl above them.

“You make it sound like a palace,” she said dreamily.

“To me, as well,” Alastair replied, though in truth he had grown up in a house much like the one he’d just rented. “You will have Sundays off. I promise you will find me not a demanding master.”

“I…”

“Mum,” Davy urged. “We can’t stay here. Not with the landlord pushin’ you all the time.”

“Your landlord has been bothering you again?” Alastair asked, hackles rising.

“He’s always sayin’ he’ll lower the rent if she goes with him. When she tells him no, he raises it again.” The glower on Davy’s face told Alastair that one of these days the landlord would find himself on the wrong side of the young man’s fists.

“All the more reason you need to move, Mrs. Butler. I am offering you thirty-five pounds per year, room and board. You will have your own room, which is much bigger than this one.”

“Thirty-five,” she repeated, astonished.

“All right then, make it forty,” Alastair responded, feeling generous. “I will pay the first month in advance, as I know you will have expenses for the move.”

“Dear God, that’s a fortune.”

“Well, what do you say?” Alastair pressed.

“Yes.” Mrs. Butler wrapped her son in a tight embrace. Then she broke into tears.

~••~••~••~

The moment the transfer effect began to stabilize, Copeland knew he’d find the Ascendant on his knees, head bowed reverentially. What else would a Victorian make of those whirls of light and that odd sound, especially if he was at all religious?

He couldn’t restrain a grin.
Damn, I love this job.

Sure enough, there was Hezekiah Grant, prostrate in awe as if his visitor were a god or something. From Copeland’s perspective, Grant had three things going for him. First, he lived in an unstable time period. Second, he was the leader of the shape-shifters. Third, he was a very pious man—too pious, some might say, with a tendency toward fanaticism. Thanks to a few examples of technical hocus-pocus from the twenty-first century, Grant was now absolutely convinced that he was receiving visits from the Archangel Michael. His ego already oversized, Grant had no trouble believing that he, alone, was the recipient of God’s most senior messenger.

What a sucker.

“Have you done what God asks of you?” Copeland boomed.

Trembling, Grant nodded furiously. “In all things, Most Holy Messenger.”

“Tell me.”

“I have ensured the explosives are divided amongst the warehouses so they will not be found before the Day of Judgment, just as you instructed.”

That would please Copeland’s new bosses. They demanded results. Failure, they said, wasn’t an option. He liked it that way. Davies and his TPB cronies had been too skittish to really turn him loose, let him use that street knowledge he’d picked up over the years. They’d never understood his particular talents. His new bosses did.

“The w-warehouse owner is dead, as you commanded,” the Ascendant stammered, evidently unnerved by the silence.

“Well done,” Copeland said, throwing the man a rare verbal bone. Pulling his strings was so easy.

Step by step, he’d guided Grant through the theft of the explosives and their distribution. When the plan reached fruition, the shifters would take the blame, along with that Fenian.

“What of the Devil’s servant?” Copeland demanded. “Is she dead?”

Grant’s trembling accelerated. “No…no. She is in Bedlam,” the man murmured, still on his knees. “Insane, I hear.”

Bedlam?
Endorphin Rebound finally got her
. He let loose a laugh, causing Grant’s eyes to snap upward in surprise. Apparently, archangels weren’t known for their humor.

“God’s wrath has fallen upon her,” Copeland announced with relish, staying in character. “We have no mercy for those who side with the Devil.”

The Ascendant nodded enthusiastically.

“She must die before the Sabbath. Do you understand?”

Grant’s eyes widened. “But the Lead Assassin—”

“Is standing in our way!” Copeland bellowed. “Go around him!”

“As you command, Most High Messenger,” Grant said, his forehead touching the carpet in humble obeisance.

Copeland smirked, knowing it wouldn’t be seen.

Just kill the bitch, will you?

“I expected something more posh,” Ramsey complained as he took a visual inventory of Keats’ sitting room. Two chairs, a couch, small writing table, and a bookcase. Decent condition, but not new. No obvious signs of wealth.

Disconcerted, he moved to the window and looked out onto the street below. “Nice view,” he muttered.

“Why did you expect anything different?” Anderson inquired, still hanging back by the door.

“Keats’ family has a bit of money, from what I hear. I figured he lived better than this. Looks like any other sergeant’s rooms, except they wouldn’t have all those books.”

Anderson edged inside. “Are you saying that police officers don’t read?”

“No,” Ramsey responded curtly, suddenly aware of the trap opening up in front of him. “I’m saying that most coppers don’t have time to sit on their bums in front of the fire.”

“You think Sergeant Keats was derelict in his duties?”

“I don’t know that for sure. Always had a hunch, you see.”

“I thought inspectors kept a tight rein on their detectives,” Anderson declared.

“They do, but when it came to Keats the chief inspector gave him all sorts of liberties.”

“Why do you dislike the man so much?”

Ramsey’s nose wrinkled. “He’s the sort I used to beat up when I was a lad. You know, the short, whiny ones.”

Anderson raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? The only reason you dislike him is because he’s short?”

The inspector’s bravado deflated. “Not really. I’ve always had to work for everything I got. For Keats, hell, it just seemed to always go right for him, like he had some guardian angel watching over his sorry arse.”

“The sergeant has had some successes.”

“Yes,” Ramsey admitted grudgingly, “he has. And he’s sure to wave them under my nose every time he can.”

“If he did kill that Hallcox woman, what would be the motive?”

Ramsey scoffed. “Simple. He jumped in bed with that tart, and she laughed at what he offered her.”

“Does that happen often?” asked Anderson, his face all innocence.

“Not to me,” Ramsey replied with a manly grin. “Let’s see where he hides the posh bits.” The inspector made it as far as the small room off the hall and then stopped.

“What in the hell?” He pushed inside and lit the gas lamp. Tiny colored pins littered maps that were attached to three of the four walls. “I thought he was winding me up.”

“Pardon?” Anderson asked from the doorway.

“The sergeant said he’d comb the newspapers and put pins in maps so he could see if there was a pattern to the crimes.” He moved closer and tapped a thick index finger on the map of Whitechapel. “Damn, look at this. Robberies, indecent acts, murder. He’s got it all.”

“So that’s why there’s a large stack of papers by the chair in the other room,” Anderson observed. “Quite a useful tool.”

Ramsey shook his head. “A waste of time, I think.” He bent over and riffled through the contents on the desk. Nothing promising. A check of the drawers revealed the usual detritus of life: paid statements from a tailor and a cobbler, old letters from Keats’ family. Nothing that pointed toward blackmail or the desire to throttle the woman in Mayfair.

Ramsey frowned. “He’s a short little bugger. Where would he hide things?” Certainly not up high. He bent over and dug under the desk. Nothing. Running his head underneath the top revealed a small shelf concealed behind the wooden façade.

“I thought so. So what’s this?” He opened the book. “A diary.” With a disapproving chuff, he retreated to the sitting room for better light, pushing past the reporter along the way.

“Anything of interest?” Anderson inquired.

Ramsey flipped through the pages. “His last entry is on the twelfth. Says he went to Nicci Hallcox’s house.”

“The night before was she was killed.”

Ramsey nodded. He squinted at the writing. “
Her butler lied to me and said there was no gathering in progress. I was very afraid for Jacynda’s safety. Their perverted behavior sickens me to the core. I would have arrested them all, but heaven knows who they really were. Given Nicci’s licentiousness, any one of them could be a lord, a judge or a clergyman. Nicci was of no help in regard to Effington, only interested in pressing her lurid attentions upon me.

I fear I shall never find Flaherty before he employs those explosives. That will taint the Yard’s reputation further and may well cost Chief Inspector Fisher his position. That would be a great loss.”

Ramsey closed the book and said nothing for a time.

“Not what you expected?” Anderson observed quietly.

The inspector shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “Don’t know,” he muttered as he stuck the diary in his pocket.

The sergeant’s bedroom revealed no surprises. His clothes weren’t expensive, he hid nothing under the mattress, and his wardrobe was obsessively tidy. A picture of a woman hung on one wall. Given the resemblance, probably his mother.

“Bloody waste of time,” Ramsey grumbled as they headed down the stairs to the street.

~••~••~••~

Friday, 26 October, 1888

Rotherhithe

My God.

Keats shot Clancy a look. He received a nod of understanding in response.

Effington’s former foreman, Dillon, was slumped in a chair near the fire, one side of his mouth slack. A line of spittle dribbled from the corner. His hand on the opposite side of his body was clenched into a permanent fist, the arm now useless. Each breath required a thick rasp of effort.

The man’s wife glared at them from across the tiny room. It’d taken all of Keats’ charm to gain them admittance. The room was chilly, the fire subsisting on only a few chunks of coal. The woman wore no coat, rubbing her hands up and down her arms to forestall the cold. Her husband had a threadbare blanket over his shoulders. The story was plain to see: everything they’d had was gone, pawned for food and warmth. All because the man had dared to ask Hugo Effington a question.

Keats felt the anger stir in his soul, his bones. It was fortunate the bully was dead.

“Why are ya here?” the woman asked warily.

“We’re wondering what it was that caused Mr. Effington to do this to him,” Keats replied as evenly as he could.

The name evoked an immediate reaction from the crippled man. His eyes rose and his mouth worked without producing any sound.

Keats knelt next to him. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but I have to know what happened that night. What made you ask Effington about that load?”

The man’s eyes grew wide, but the mouth wouldn’t work right. “Bl…bl…”

“Ya’ll not get much,” his wife said.

“Was it in barrels?” Keats asked.

The man reached over with his good hand and gave Keats’ arm a squeeze.

“Yes,” the wife translated.

“Was the top of the load rum?”

Another squeeze.
Yes.

“What about the bottom ones?” He immediately cursed himself. The poor wretch couldn’t answer such a complex question. “Were the bottom barrels different?”

Squeeze.

Gunpowder?

“Do you know Desmond Flaherty?”

Squeeze.

“Was he there?”

A nod this time.

“Stttttopped…”

“What? I don’t understand.”

The man’s wife cut in, “That Flaherty fellow kept him from bein’ beat to death.”

Keats shifted his questions to the wife. “Do you know where this warehouse was?”

“Near the docks, that’s all I know. They brought him home on a piece of planking.”

“Effington is dead. Someone killed him.”

There was a thick wheeze. The drooping corner of Dillon’s mouth vainly tried to angle upward into a pathetic smile.

As Keats rose he pulled out all the money he had with him, about two quid. He placed it in the woman’s hands. “We did not come to visit you, do you understand? If Flaherty learns what we’re about, there could be trouble.”

The woman nodded, her eyes riveted on the coins in her hands. “I never seen ya.”

“Good.” Keats placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, sir.”

The barest of nods was the only response.

“I don’t think Flaherty did that poor blighter any favors,” Clancy observed once they were on the street. “Livin’ like that…” He shook his head in dismay.

That could have been me.

Flaherty had taken after him with a vengeance the night Keats had discovered the wagonload of gunpowder, striking him a horrific blow that had ended his ability to go
en mirage
and nearly cost his life
.
That rage hadn’t been there when they’d next met in Whitechapel. Flaherty had appeared weary, unwilling to kill him though the anarchist had ample opportunity. Then there was Dillon. Why would the anarchist get involved? That was out of character for a man who’d cut Johnny Ahearn’s throat.

“Something’s changed him,” Keats murmured.
But what?

~••~••~••~

Cynda’s visitor didn’t look familiar. He wasn’t young or old, but he looked fuzzy around the edges. She blinked her eyes to clear them. Still fuzzy.

“Do you know me?” he asked. She shook her head. His face seemed to fall. “It’s a sad day when you don’t know your own brother.”

Brother?
Did she have one? Cynda frowned, picking through the clouds in her mind.

“Jane has always been very simple, and we’ve been embarrassed about how far she’d fallen. She was on the streets and…” he trailed off.

“Ah,” the attendant responded, nodding sympathetically. “She’d be easy pickin’s for some of them out there.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Still, ya’ve come for her, and that speaks well of ya.”

“Thank you.”

Come for me?
Cynda stared at him until her head began to hurt again. It was no use. She had no idea of his name. Still, maybe it was all right.

An attendant walked her back to her cell, saying something about papers to sign. She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe her nose. A flutter of white fell to the floor. As she picked it up, she remembered. It was the piece of paper the veiled lady had given her. She kept forgetting it was in her pocket.

“Jacynda…Lassiter,” she whispered and then tucked it away.

The attendant returned. “Are you ready?”

Behind her was the man who’d come for her.

“It’s time for us to leave, dear sister,” he said.

Cynda stared at that unfamiliar face. It had a slight smirk on it. Or did it? It was gone in a flash.

Outside, a carriage waited for them. It seemed huge, all black with no markings. The driver eyed her, then turned away as if she was no longer of importance.

Not right.
Cynda looked back at the big building. She’d miss the columns. As they’d walked toward the carriage, the new man hadn’t let her touch them, saying that was ridiculous.

“In you go, sister,” the man told her, devoid of emotion.

She thought of refusing, but what good would it do? Maybe the new place would be nicer. Maybe they’d help her get better.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

No reply. He pushed her into the carriage and she huddled on the far side, not liking him to touch her. The carriage rolled away the moment the door shut. She shivered in the cold. He wouldn’t let the curtains be opened, and the dark frightened her. Once her eyes adjusted, she studied him. He seemed younger now, his hair a different color. How could that be?

The coach rolled on for a long time. She huddled to stay warm. He’d not offered her a coat or a blanket to cover herself. Even the people in the crazy place had done that.

“Where are we going?” she asked again.

“To the river.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where we need to go.”

A while later, the sound of the wheels changed. He drew back the curtain. “We’re on the bridge now. Nearly there.”

“Who are you?”

No reply. On instinct, she moved toward the closest door.

He launched himself at her in an instant, her neck in his hands, jamming her up against the side of the carriage. She flailed as his grip tightened.

“Just let…it…go,” he grunted, bearing down harder. Black stars swirled in front of her eyes as she struggled to breathe, fingers clawing at his iron grip. She kicked at him, clipping a knee. His fingers loosened for a second, then redoubled in pressure.

Panic exploded within her. Another kick caught him mid-groin, and the air filled with blistering oaths. Cynda jammed a bunched fist into his midsection, as hard as she could. This time he released her, gasping for breath. His face changed as the white fuzziness around him faded.

Cynda flung herself at the far door and it swung open, revealing patchy darkness beyond. She wrenched herself free from the hands on her shoulders, hearing her sleeve rip. When she landed, the impact drove the air out of her. She instinctively rolled, fearing the carriage wheels.