Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (39 page)

“Sip it slowly. It has a fair amount of brandy in it,” the doctor advised.

“Go on. I must hear the rest of it.” He worked on the strong brew as Alastair finished the story.

“Then you have all of my possessions from that night,” he surmised.

“Everything but your notebook. That is still missing.”

Keats could only shake his head. “I still don’t believe it.”

“Frankly, they had little choice. Somehow, Jacynda succeeded in speaking with the Prince of Wales and made an impassioned plea on your behalf.”

Keats’ mouth dropped open. “How did she do that?”

“I did not ask. His Royal Highness sent his
own
man to Home Office and to the Prime Minister early this morning to express his gravest concern that justice be served. It was only then that things came to fruition.”

“Then why did they take me to the scaffold?” Keats asked, baffled.

“We did not receive notice until the very last moment, my friend,” Alastair explained, his eyes radiating sympathy. “Lord Wescomb and I were detained by the crowd and had just arrived at the prison when the word came.” He sighed deeply. “It was a near thing.”

Keats forced a wan smile. “I was as prepared as a man can be for the end. Now, if they uphold the verdict, I don’t know how I will cope.”

“You must trust that they will not. There is much debate on this issue. I gather the matter will be heard by the Lord Chief Justice himself, so there will be no question of partiality.”

Keats snorted. “Partiality? My trial was rammed ahead, as was my appointment with Mr. Berry. I would hate to think what would have happened if I’d received special treatment.”

He knew he sounded bitter.
What man wouldn’t be?

Alastair rose. “You’re regaining your temper. That is a good sign. I apologize, but I must go. I’m to testify at Effington’s inquest this afternoon.”

“Full day you have there, my friend,” Keats remarked sourly. “Hanging in the morning, inquest in the afternoon.”

“I shall return this evening,” Alastair continued, apparently knowing it was best not to argue. “Please rest. You’ve had a tremendous shock. It would be very unfortunate if your health collapsed because of this.”

Keats clutched the cup in his hands, knuckles whitening.

As the cell door opened, he called out, “Alastair?” His friend turned. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”

A heartfelt smile was the reply.

~••~••~••~

The argument began the moment they left the prison and headed toward Victoria Embankment.

“I’m not a complete neophyte,” Morrisey insisted. “I conducted considerable research before I left.”

“As far as I’m concerned, you know nothing,” Cynda replied.

“That’s a bit arrogant, don’t you think? You were in the same boat a few months ago and I gave you the benefit of the doubt.”

“That’s not the point,” she retorted. “It’s an entirely different ball game here, and you need to remember that.”

“Really,” he said dryly. He gestured toward an omnibus as it crawled past them. “I never would have guessed.”

Tired of his attitude, she started planning ahead. “Since you’re here, we need to get you a room at the hotel.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Harder than you think. It’s tourist season. If they don’t have a spare, then we’ll have to room together. If anyone asks, you’re my brother. I’m registered as a
Miss,
so they’ll find it odd if I suddenly conjure up a husband,” she said, mentally checking off obstacles. The hotel would have to come up with a cot. No way would they share a bed.

“Then what?” he asked.

“Then you get some sleep.”
While I figure out what to do with you.

The front desk clerk rewarded them with a dubious expression. No doubt enterprising unmarried couples had tried this tactic before.

“We do not have a spare room and to allow…your sibling…into yours is not our usual arrangement,” the clerk commented. He wasn’t the nice one she’d met when she’d checked in.

“I am aware of the issues of propriety, sir, and what effect it might have upon the other patrons of your fine establishment,” Morrisey spoke up. “However, it is an unusual situation. I need a place to stay.”

“It is very important, sir. I had no notion he was coming to London. There is a sudden illness in the family,” Cynda said, playing the sympathy card. “If you could provide a cot for him in the sitting room, that would be an immense help to us.”

“An illness?”

“We have a member of the family who has taken a turn for the worse,” Morrisey explained. It wasn’t quite correct, but taken to the extreme, it could easily mean Keats.

“Oh, I understand,” the clerk said, suddenly becoming more solicitous. “I do hope all resolves for the best.”

“So do we,” Cynda responded demurely. “Thank you.”

“A cot is easily arranged. I shall fetch a second key for you, Mr. Lassiter.”

“I appreciate your assistance, sir,” Morrisey replied.

Cynda mentally let loose a sigh of relief. Whether he liked being called by her last name or not, at least that problem was solved.

For the moment, anyway.

Her new roommate had barely enough time to put down his suitcase when she demanded, “So why are you here?”

The look she received was pure disappointment. “You’re not happy to see me?”

Cynda settled on the couch, unsure of what to say. He sat as well, stretching his arms overhead. There was a faint pop of vertebrae. The disappointed expression didn’t change.

“Look, I’d be happy to show you around if this wasn’t a giant mess,” she explained.

“That’s the only reason you don’t want me here?” he asked tersely.

“No.” She met his gaze straight on. “I owe you. You kept me safe while I healed. That means everything to me. I don’t want to let you down. I couldn’t handle losing another…”

He held his breath and then slowly let it out. “This wasn’t done on a lark. I had no choice. TPB came calling with a warrant for my arrest. Fortunately, Klein knew about it ahead of time, so we laid plans right after you left. Looks like I’m here for the duration.”

For the duration?
She shook her head. “That’s not an option. You don’t know anything about—”

“If I go back, I’m in a cell, and I won’t be able to help you at all.”

“What keeps them from shutting down the company?”

“I temporarily transferred control to Alegria.”

“Who?” Then it clicked. “Chris’ mom?”

“Yes. My sister is enough removed from all the politics that they don’t dare do anything to her. So at present, the company has gained a respite of sorts.”

Got to give the guy one thing: he’s a brilliant strategist.

“I let Klein know about your off-time excursion the night Chris died.”

Cynda looked down at her hands. Her mind replayed the sound of the body splashing into the river. She forced herself not to shudder.

“That had to be very hard for you,” Morrisey said softly.

When she looked up, she saw that expression in his eyes again. Like he was lost. He always had it when he talked about Chris. “At least we know Copeland was involved, and that leads right back to TPB.”

A nod. “How did Harter look that night?”

“Tired. He was way bitchy.”

“He can get that way.”

“Did he ever say anything to you about…” Her mind blanked. She fished for the pendant and looked at the last few files she’d accessed. “Adelaide Winston. I told him she was one of the Twenty, and he got all weird on me.”

“He mentioned a Winston in this time period but gave no details.”

“Well, she’s one of the top courtesans in this city.”

“Not surprising he’d know her. Though against the rules, Harter has enjoyed a number of women over the centuries.”

She smirked. “I never crossed that line. TPB would have caught me for sure. Rover One can get away with murder.”

“Not quite. However, I’m pleased to see you’re using the pendant,” Morrisey observed.

“My spare brain,” she quipped. “It never fails.”

His boots came off and he assumed a Lotus pose on the couch. “I’m glad I’m here. Between us, we can sort this out.”

He sounded so positive. “You should take a nap,” she counseled. “You need to mitigate your time lag.”

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” came the curt reply.

This one’s going to be a challenge.

~••~••~••~

Ramsey heaved his tired bulk into a chair. If he hadn’t been in Fisher’s office, he would have let loose a sizeable yawn.

“You look knackered, Martin,” the chief inspector observed.

“We’re a pair,” Ramsey replied.

His superior smiled faintly. “Sleep has come at a premium recently.”

“I heard they almost hanged him.”

A nod. “Very close. If the Prince of Wales had not intervened, our sergeant would be in the ground by now.”

“The prince?”

“Yes. I’m not sure how His Royal Highness became involved in all this. I think it had something to do with the Lassiter woman.”

Ramsey snorted and then dropped a sheaf of papers on the desk. “My report,” he announced. “I found everything right where the Fenian said it would be. The coffin is downstairs with the boots, locked up in a storage room with a constable at the door. He knows that if he budges, I will tear him apart. I have arranged for another constable to relieve him at two-hour intervals. They know how important the job is.”

“Good. I’ve done roughly the same with the Fenian. I feared someone would knife him.”

For a time, the room went quiet.

“Go on, say it,” Fisher prompted.

“Hulme botched this investigation from the start,” Ramsey blurted out. “First, he didn’t find those calling cards at the scene. Every fellow’s allowed a mistake every now and then. But then he didn’t bother to follow up with Keats’ alibi like he should have. He even misplaced the pawn ticket for the boots. He was sitting in the pub in Ingatestone rather than doing his job. What is wrong with him?”

“Perhaps you should ask him.”

“Well, I intend to.”

“Don’t stray too far, Inspector. We may be summoned in front of the Lord Chief Justice this very afternoon.”

Ramsey rallied. “So it’s going that high, is it?”

“Yes. There’s been hell to pay in the papers, questions flying right and left. Even Mr. Stead of the
Pall Mall
has weighed in, and his verdict is that something is definitely amiss with Keats’ conviction. His readers are writing letters to the paper, asking why the sergeant is paying the price for others’ sordid behavior.”

“About damned time,” Ramsey muttered.

“Amen to that.” Fisher leaned back in his chair. “I trust Mr. Anderson has enjoyed his time with the Yard?”

“He has, especially the part in the woods last night.” They shared a laugh. “He’s the one who found the coffin. You know he’s with Pinkerton’s, don’t you?”

“Yes. I found that out just after I’d assigned him to you.”

“Good,” Ramsey said, rising from his chair. “Will the new evidence do the trick?”

“I pray so. Lord Wescomb will do his very best, of that I’m sure.”

Ramsey nodded and headed downstairs to double-check the secured storage room one more time. He’d be damned if any of the evidence went missing on
his
watch.

~••~••~••~

Rather than arguing with someone more stubborn than she,
Cynda bundled her charge off to the East End. As they trudged along Aldgate High Street, she desperately tried to work out a strategy.

“You need to wear him down,” Mr. Spider advised. “He’s no different than any other new Rover. He needs the full orientation routine.”

Her delusion had a point. New Rovers were always so enthusiastic, so wired they just couldn’t relax and do their job. Depending on the time period, that distraction could be fatal.

She smiled when the answer came to her. It would be the perfect solution.

One tour coming up.

The ‘orientation tour’ involved hauling the new Rover’s butt all over creation until he or she got too sleepy to move. After a good snooze to mitigate the lag and ramp down the high adrenalin, the brain would work much quicker. The upshot was that you lost fewer new Rovers that way.

Usually they caved in after about an hour. After two hours of trudging Morrisey all over Whitechapel and Spitalfields, showing him the most infamous pubs, most of the Ripper murder sites, Alastair’s former clinic, and Annabelle’s Boarding House, he was just beginning to flag.

What is it with this guy?

By the third hour of hoofing it around, she was about to call it off, fearing she’d met her match. Finally he caught her arm, pulled her out of the flow of pedestrian traffic and said in an exhausted voice, “I know what you’re doing. I’ve read all your run reports. This is the ‘orientation tour’ gambit, isn’t it?”