Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (11 page)

“Jacynda?” he said, kneeling in front of her. He took one of her hands and kissed it. “Alastair will take care of you. You can trust him.”

She looked from him to the doctor and back. A nod.

Like a small child who has to be told what to believe.

The sergeant reluctantly rose. “At least that worry is resolved.”

As they walked down the passageway to the back door, Alastair asked, “Do you need money?”

“No. I have an ample sum.”

“Where are you staying if I need to find you?”

“Rotherhithe. I’m at Mrs. O’Neill’s boarding house on Neptune Street. It’s near the chemical works. I’m known as Sean Murphy over there. Send a note, rather than coming yourself. It’s too dangerous for both of us.”

“If I come, I’ll be
en mirage.”

It took a moment for that to register. “So I’ve finally pulled you down that road, have I?”

“Somehow, I always knew you would.” They clasped hands and then Keats hurried across the yard to whatever fate awaited him.

The nice man with the beard had said she’d be safe here, that the new man would take care of her. She would just have to trust them. With nothing else to do, Cynda’s eyes wandered around the kitchen. It was clean but sparse. There were a few dishes in the tall cabinet on the wall and only a teapot on the stove. It was so quiet compared to the crazy place.

The man with the brown hair returned. “I’ll lay a fire in the parlour. It’ll be more comfortable there,” he told her. “I’m sorry, I just moved in. I don’t have a lot of things squared away yet.”

It sounded like this was important to him, but she had no idea why.

“I collected your Gladstone from Pratchett’s when you didn’t return,” he continued, carrying a load of kindling into the next room. She followed him noiselessly as he dropped the wood into the hearth and then lit the gas lamps, one by one. “It’s just there,” he said, pointing toward a black bag sitting next to a chair.

Cynda studied it, running her hands over the leather. There was a long rent in the side of it. Then she pulled her hand back suddenly, a cold pang shooting through her chest.

She looked up at him. He was staring into her face, puzzled.

“Something…bad,” she said, shivering.

“You were mortally injured when you were carrying it. Your lover’s ashes were inside that Gladstone. You took him home with you.”

“Lover?”

“You can’t remember him, either,” he murmured. “How much you’ve lost. Well, come here and watch me light the fire.”

Cynda hefted the case and brought it with her. Sitting on the floor near him, she began to pull out the contents, one by one, like a child on Christmas morning. First, the clothes. She held a navy dress for a long time, eyes closed.

“Pretty,” she whispered.

“Yes, especially when you’re wearing it.”

That only confused her. By the time he had the fire lit, she’d set the clothes aside and was holding the stuffed animal.

He looked over at it. “Is it a weasel?”

Cynda shook her head, hugging it fiercely, not knowing why it brought her such comfort. After she set it in her lap, she dug further into the case, pulling out a small box. She opened the top, peered inside and then slammed it shut.

“Sad,” she said, pushing it away on the floor. “Can’t.”

The man looked like he understood. “You may not remember Mr. Stone’s name, but you still feel his loss.” He waved her over to the couch. “Come here, it’s too cold on the floor for you. I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

When he returned, she was clutching the stuffed animal in her arms again. It felt good to pet the top of its head.

“Jacynda, do you know who I am?” the man asked.

She nodded. “Fred.”

The hope in his eyes evaporated. “No, I’m Alastair. I’m a doctor. Do you remember me now?”

“No.” The pieces in her brain just weren’t coming together. She could see images, places, people, but they made little sense.

“My God,” he murmured. His voice sounded different now, as if there were small pebbles in it. “What have they done to you?”

She stopped petting and moved her finger upward to the side of her head where the strange mark resided. She tapped it a few times.

“Will it get better on its own?”

She shrugged.

“Damn them,” he muttered.

She started at. Something wasn’t right.

“I apologize. I’m sounding like you now.” Then he paused. “You remembered I don’t swear, at least not often.” A smile grew on his face. “I would think that a good sign.” He pointed toward the animal. “You say that he is not a weasel. What kind of creature is he, then?”

She frowned. “Fer…fer…

“Ferret?”

“Yes. It’s a fer...ferret.”

Heartened, he returned to another question. “What’s your name?”

The handkerchief came to mind. Cynda pulled it out of her pocket and extracted the damaged piece of paper.

“Jacynda,” she announced. When he reached for it, she hid it away. She trusted him, but it was the only thing that told her who she really was.

“Where did you get that?”

“At the crazy place. A woman gave to me.”

“But how did she know your name?” He frowned. “Someone had to tell her. Who brought you there?”

“Macassar,” she replied, pointing to her head.

“I’m sorry, I’m as confused as Keats about this.” He tucked the blanket around her. “I think it’s best we remove your boots. Your socks are probably wet, and that will not do a thing for your health.” She leaned over and watched him unlace each of them. When he removed the second one, a single coin fell to the floor.

He laughed. “I’d forgotten—you store your money in the most improbable of places.” He picked it up and showed it to her. “It’s a shilling.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I was so hungry.”

The man’s humor withered. “How long have you been on the streets?”

“Ah…don’t know,” she told him. “There was a man…I ran away from him. He wasn’t right.”

“Good,” he said, nodding. “Trust your instincts. That’s the best protection you have right now. Now tuck your feet under the blanket. They’re very cold.”

She did as he asked. He placed her boots and damp socks near the fireplace. Sitting on the couch with her, he opened up a book and then displayed it to her.

“You bought this for me, though I doubt you remember that now. It has proven very helpful. Thank you.”

She had no idea what he was talking about, but it seemed to make him feel better. As she held the little animal she stared at the fire. It made her warm and drowsy. Every now and then, the doctor would look over at her then return to his book.

“Just you and me tonight,” he informed her. “Mrs. Butler will move in tomorrow morning. She will be a great help.”

“Who?”

He shook his head, dismayed. After a few more minutes, he thumped the book shut and set it aside. Cautiously, she leaned against him and he tucked her under his arm. He would make a good brother, she thought. He’d never try to hurt her. Try to throw her in the river.

“Go ahead and sleep. You’re safe here,” he whispered.

Reassured, she nestled closer.

Keats cut south toward a landing where he could hire a waterman to take him to Church Stairs. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to hear a shout or a police whistle at any moment. Once he was in Rotherhithe, he’d be fine.

Only a few more days.
Find Flaherty and the explosives, then everything would fall in place. The charges would be dropped and he might be able to resume his career, though there would no doubt be disciplinary action for his egregious behavior. Hopefully, they wouldn’t bust his rank.

When he reached the landing, he saw a waterman returning across the Thames, oars breaking the surface in long, sure strokes. Keats tugged up his collar, trying not to look nervous.

Speed it up, will you?

The boat was forty yards from the shore when he saw the constable. The fellow was swinging his lantern around, hunting for something.

Me.

If he moved from his spot, it would look suspicious. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay put. The boat glided toward the shore as the constable tromped on. It would be too close for his liking. In the dark, he saw a second boat approach the first, causing it to stop. The two watermen began to chat about whatever was on their minds, a waiting customer be damned.

Talk to him later!
He had no choice now and turned away, intending to skirt along the river’s edge and cross using the underwater tunnel.

“Sir?” a voice called. It was a second constable and his bull’s-eye lantern caught Keats straight in the eyes, blinding him.

“Constable,” he acknowledged, shielding his face.

“What’s your business, sir?”

“Goin’ cross the river to my wife and bed,” he replied, pushing the working-class accent to the hilt.

“What were you doing in Whitechapel?”

“Lookin’ for a job. T’ain’t any to be found.”

Behind, Keats heard the first constable approaching. He was trapped between them.

“Ya need a row across, mate?” a voice called. The waterman had finally arrived.

Keats turned away from the glare of the lamp. “I do.”

“Then get aboard,” the fellow called. Keats made sure not to hurry, moving more like a tired man might rather than one fearing arrest. Behind him, the two constables talked amongst themselves.

As the boat steadily moved away from shore, Keats allowed himself to relax. Finally, he could no longer resist and he looked back over his shoulder at the constables. One was waving his lantern, like he was signaling someone. Keats turned toward the far shore. Another lantern swung in reply.

They’d figured out who he was, but too late. “Let’s land a bit further upstream,” Keats suggested.

“Prince’s Stairs?”

There was a police station near there. “No, Cherry Garden Stairs,” he replied.

“Cost ya extra.”

“I’m good for it.” Keats leaned back in the boat.

Too close.

A few minutes later Keats heard the sound, but tried to ignore it. There were a number of steam vessels on the Thames, he assured himself. It could be any one of them. The noise continued, rising in intensity. When the boat’s bow chugged out of the darkness, it angled to cut them off from the far shore. Keats swore under his breath. The constables had signaled a launch.

The waterman shot Keats a questioning look. “I can cut ’round ’em, try a run down river.”

Was it worth the risk? Could they escape? He only needed a few more days…

“Don’t bother. It’s not worth the risk to you and the boat.”

The man shipped the oars.

“If you have any sense, you’ll claim you recognized me right off and were going to turn me in once you reached Bermondsey. That way, you might be able to collect the reward.”

“Reward?” the man repeated eagerly.

“It’s a large one. Seventy-five quid is the last number I heard.”

Realization dawned as the waterman gave a low whistle. “Yer that copper they’re looking for.” Keats nodded. “That’s a right fair number. Did ya do it?”

“No.”
Which is why I am the unluckiest man in all of Christendom.

As the launch drew nearer, a familiar voice bellowed across the water. “Thought you’d get away, didn’t you, you little gnome?”

Ramsey.
Keats groaned aloud. Why couldn’t it have been the two constables?
The Ram,
as he called him, would make this arrest a personal triumph.

He waited until the launch pulled up alongside, sending the small boat rocking precariously. “You’re a bit late,” Keats called out, issuing a wink to the waterman. “This fine gent had already nicked me.”

“Ah…I spied him right off,” the man shouted.

Clancy was right: he won’t collect a bit of brass out of this.

“We’ll sort the reward out later. Now get your arse up here,
Sergeant
.” Ramsey turned to a trio of Thames constables and barked, “Got some chains on this boat? I want him secured. He’s a wily one. If he gets loose, I’ll have every one of you up on charges.”

What an overbearing sod. He’s playing it to the hilt.

Keats grasped the rope lowered over the side of the launch. Then he remembered his damaged chest.

“I’ll need some help. I’ve got a busted rib.”

“Fish him up!” Ramsey ordered. “He’s a light one. Shouldn’t be any trouble.”

One of the Thames constables snagged onto Keats’ shoulder on the affected side. He winced at the sharp bite of discomfort.

“Easy, please.”

As he tugged upward, the constable whispered, “The guv’ner ’ates ya summat fierce. What’d ya do to ’im?”

Through a grimace, Keats confided, “It would take too long to explain.”