Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (20 page)

“When did the butler say he left?”

“Sometime before half past twelve, when the lady’s maid went to check on her mistress.”

“He did not see the prisoner depart?”

“Initially, he said he did. During later questioning he admitted he was otherwise engaged.”

“Did you visit the prisoner’s rooms?”

“Yes.”

“Did you find anything of value there?”

“I found a set of lock picks.”

“Are those standard issue for a detective-sergeant?” Arnett quizzed.

“Not that I am aware.”

Keats perked up. The lock picks were a gift from the night he’d caught Fast Eddy Klein removing a king’s ransom in diamonds from a Hebrew jeweler in Whitechapel. The criminal had promised to retire if Keats would let him go. Keats hadn’t, but after Eddy finished his sentence, he’d delivered a new set of lock picks as a memento of his last caper, and even shown Keats how to use them. Last he’d heard Eddy was in Paris, living a gentleman’s life of leisure.

While I’m in the dock.

Realizing he’d been woolgathering, he pulled himself back to the present. Arnett had seated himself. Wescomb rose, adjusting his embroidered waistcoat. Keats felt his breath catch.

“Inspector Hulme, during your investigation did you discover anyone else besides the butler who witnessed the prisoner’s arrival or departure from Miss Hallcox’s home on the night of the murder?”

“No.”

“Really? No jarvey or someone on the street, a neighbor perhaps?”

“None.”

“Not even another member of the domestic staff?” Wescomb pressed, raising his voice in surprise.

“No.”

“How remarkable. You would have thought someone would have seen the sergeant, admitted him to the house.”

“None of the servants claim they did.”

“I see. At any time did Chief Inspector Fisher interfere with your investigation?”

“Only in the matter of the coroner. He insisted I summon Dr. Bishop to conduct the post-mortem.”

“Did he state his reasons?”

“No, he did not.”

“Other than a preference for Dr. Bishop, was there any other interference?”

“No.”

“What did Chief Inspector Fisher do when he realized that his sergeant might be involved in this case?”

“He immediately sent a constable to the prisoner’s rooms, but the prisoner wasn’t there.”

“What were you doing while you were awaiting that report?”

“The chief inspector insisted we interview the butler and the other servants, yet again.”

“What did you learn during this second interview?”

“It was at this time that Mr. Landis admitted that he had not seen the prisoner leave the house.”

“Did you smell liquor on Mr. Landis’ breath?”

“Yes. Quite a lot of it, actually.”

Arnett rose. “My lord, certainly it could be argued that he sought the comfort of a stiff one to steady his nerves, given the brutal murder of his mistress.”

“So it may be,” Wescomb conceded graciously. He turned his attention back to the inspector. “I understand a collection of calling cards were found at the scene.”

Hulme’s face went ashen.

“My lord,” Arnett began, issuing Justice Hawkins a concerned look.

“I shall confine my questions to the nature of the cards, not their owners, your lordship,” Wescomb replied.

The justice eyed him. “Ensure that you do so.”

Wescomb returned his attention to the inspector. “The calling cards. Who discovered those?”

“Dr. Reuben Bishop.”

“Where were they found?”

Hulme looked uncomfortable. “They had been hidden in a false bottom of the deceased’s jewelry case. I…did not think to look there.”

“Didn’t you have the maid verify if any of her mistress’ jewelry had gone astray?”

There was a lengthy hesitation. “Ah, no.”

“Why not?” Wescomb challenged. “Certainly you would wish to ascertain if the murder may have been committed during the course of a robbery?”

“I did not think a member of Scotland Yard would resort to petty thievery.”

“And yet he may resort to murder?”

Hulme’s jaw tightened.

Well played!

“Why do you think Miss Hallcox concealed the calling cards? Most of us are proud to display such items if they involved
important personages
. We even place them in plain view on our mantels so others may see who have visited us.”

“Tread carefully, Lord Wescomb,” Hawkins warned.

“I shall, my lord.”

Hulme ran a finger under his collar. “The lady’s maid said Miss Hallcox collected them from her…admirers,” he replied, directing a worried look to the judge.

Wescomb flipped a page of notes. “Your report states there was a
stack of cards
. Just how many comprise a stack, Inspector?”

“In this case, forty-six.”

Wescomb appeared shocked, though Keats knew his lordship was already aware of the number. “All men?” Another nod. “It would appear that the deceased was a very
social
lady, wouldn’t you say?” There were titters in the crowd.

“I guess so.”

“Perhaps any one of those men may have had reason to end her life. Did you interview any of these forty-six potential suspects?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The butler said he saw the prisoner go up to his mistress’ room. I thought it a waste of effort to interview those who had not been present in the house at the time of the murder.”

“So you based that decision on the butler’s testimony, testimony that changed in the course of two interrogations?” Wescomb asked.

“Yes.”

Wescomb shifted to another paper. “Your report indicates that dates were inscribed on the back of these cards. What do you think those were about?”

“The maid said her mistress made note of when a gent came calling,” Hulme replied.

“I see. Did some of the cards have more than one date?”

“Yes, some did.”

“You state that you found Sergeant Keats’ calling card, but not concealed like the others.” Hulme nodded. “Were there any notations on his card?” his lordship quizzed.

“No. I don’t think she had time to make the note.”

“Or is it possible that his visit was of a different nature than her other callers?”

“Might have been,” the inspector allowed.

“What steps did you take to verify Sergeant Keats’ alibi?”

“I went to Whitechapel and interviewed some of the locals. I found a woman who had seen him earlier in the evening, before the murder. Crickland was her name.”

“What else did you do?”

“I went to find someone who had seen the prisoner or spoken with him in Ingatestone, where he claimed to be on the seventeenth of this month.”

“Did you have any luck?”

“No.”

“No one at all?”

“No,” Hulme repeated, his eyes downcast.

You’re lying.

“What about the sergeant’s boots?” his lordship pressed. “According to his statement, he pawned them in Ingatestone to gain money to return to London.”

“I talked to the pawnbroker. He said he never saw the prisoner.” Hulme was still avoiding Wescomb’s gaze.

“Did you talk to any of the other pawnbrokers?”

“I was told there weren’t any. Ingatestone isn’t a big town, like London.”

“Yet, just yesterday Inspector Ramsey did find the sergeant’s boots at the exact shop where he said he pawned them.”

“Yes,” Hulme mumbled.

“While in Ingatestone, did you go into the woods to try to locate the coffin in which Sergeant Keats was spirited away from London?”

“No. It’s very dense in that area. It would be a worthless hunt.”

“As a man’s life is on the line, I would argue it would be a hunt worth pursuing,” Wescomb chastised. “Did you at least attempt to verify if any coffins had gone missing the night of Miss Hallcox’s murder?”

“None had.”

“You spoke with the
all
coffin makers in Whitechapel?”

Hulme’s face tightened. “Most of them.”

“But not all?”

“No.”

“That will be all, Inspector.”

Keats let out a measured sigh. That had been brilliant. Wescomb had proved Hulme wasn’t as thorough as one would expect. Though in principle he disliked such a tactic, undermining the jury’s belief in the competence of the investigating officer was vital in this case.

Arnett rose. “I would like to ask a few follow-up questions, your lordship.”

A nod from Hawkins.

“Inspector, why did you not bother to verify all aspects of the prisoner’s alibi?”

“I know a good story when I see one,” Hulme responded with a smirk. “When the Crickland woman couldn’t remember when she saw him in Whitechapel, and no one else had spied him wandering around the streets, I decided it would be wasted effort to go into the middle of the forest hunting some phantom coffin.”

“So, in essence, you applied your years of experience as a police officer and decided where best to utilize your energies in this investigation.”

Hulme looked relieved at the barrister’s explanation. “That’s right.”

“Is it usual for Scotland Yard to intervene in an active investigation?”

“Doesn’t happen too often.”

“So perhaps the Yard’s involvement in this case had some other motive?”

Wescomb sprung to his feet. “I must protest! The motive is good police work, your lordship.”

“Do you have a genuine question, Mr. Arnett?” Hawkins asked.

“No, your lordship. I no longer need to examine this witness.”

Hulme dragged himself out of the witness box as if he were wearing Keats’ chains. He looked up and their eyes met.

Why are you trying to kill me?

2057 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

The one called Morrisey didn’t mind if she sat in the wooden building for hours at a time. In fact, he encouraged it. He’d brought her strange food: raw fish and rice and hot, fragrant teas. Some of it she had to eat with sticks and the cups didn’t have handles. She decided she liked that.

Sometimes he would join her, but mostly he left her alone. To her delight, she’d discovered a pond behind the building. Fish lived there, pretty gold and white ones. He’d told her they were called koi. She’d watched them swim in lazy circles, going nowhere. They didn’t seem to mind. She tried touching one, but it skidded away, splashing her.

When she grew bored with the fish, she’d watch the flat expanse of white sand in front of the pagoda. It still wasn’t right. She’d called out to it a couple of times, asking it what was wrong. It didn’t answer. When she’d asked the one called Ralph about that, he said he didn’t understand. She decided not to mention it again.

Morrisey talked to her of healing. She listened, but it made little sense. It seemed to help him, though, so she let him talk. His voice was calming, unlike the other one.

Morrisey told her that Ralph was an old friend, though he didn’t look very old to her. One time when Ralph was talking to her, she remembered a silver box that moved on wheels. She asked him about it. He said that was Sigmund, his DomoBot. She asked if this Sigmund could visit her instead. That had made the one called Ralph angry.

He was that way today, asking questions, telling her things, getting upset when she didn’t remember what he’d just told her. She didn’t want to know things until she asked. Then there seemed to be a way of storing the answer so it wouldn’t get lost so easily.

“Let’s try this again,” Ralph began, his voice tight as he wiped his glasses on the end of his tee shirt in frustration. “Do you remember how we met?”

“No.”

“Sure you do. We were in preschool together. I hit you and then you hit me back.”

“Sounds good,” she muttered.

He frowned. “Got us both in a lot of trouble.” He replaced his glasses. “What about your parents? Do you remember them?”

The sadness almost choked her. Too much sand had fallen out her mind: she couldn’t remember her own family.

“Go away,” she ordered.

“What?” Ralph replied, caught off guard.

“Go away!”

“But I thought—”

“Just go away. You’re not right for me. I can’t think when you’re here.”

As he rose, she could see the hurt in his eyes.

“I’m not going to give up, Cyn. You can’t stay this way forever.”

“Why not?” she challenged, confused why he was so angry. Why did he care?

“Because you just can’t.”

She didn’t bother to watch him walk away. It didn’t matter. The image of the kitten came again, chasing after the string. She thought maybe that was her, trying to hook her claws into a piece of her old self so it wouldn’t slip away.

The one called Morrisey appeared at the edge of the sand. He had someone with him, a man in a black suit. The one called Ralph had called him a spook. She didn’t know what that meant, but he still made her nervous, like she’d done something wrong.

After some sharp conversation, the man removed his shoes and socks. His feet were white like the sand. Cynda giggled. Maybe he wasn’t so scary after all.

He refused to sit on one of the pillows, so Morrisey settled himself and made the introductions. “Jacynda, this is Agent Klein. He knows you from before.”