Madman's Dance (Time Rovers)

by Jana Oliver

  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.”

  Once on the launch, he tried to stifle the pain in his side.

  “You all right?” Ramsey asked.

  “A bit sore, that’s all.”

  “Is that the rib that was broken during your altercation with the Fenians?” a man asked. Keats eyed him warily. He didn’t look like a policeman.

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Robert Anderson. I’m with the Chicago Herald.” He had a notebook in hand, pencil at the ready.

  Oh, Lord.

  “Sergeant Keats, do you have a comment for our readers?”

  To hell with the lot of you. Instead, he replied, “Nothing that is printable, sir.”

  He peered into the dark water. He could cast himself overboard and might actually make it to shore. Or drown under the weight of the chains.

  “I wouldn’t suggest you try jumping,” Ramsey advised cheerily, “though it would save the Crown a lot of money.”

  “Then it would be my civic duty, wouldn’t it?” Keats snapped.

  “No,” Ramsey barked. “Stay put. You move and I’ll have them chain you to the deck.”

  So this is it. He’d failed. Flaherty was still free and he was the one in chains. Still, deep down, a part of him felt immense relief. He no longer had to look over his shoulder in fear of his fellow coppers. No need to listen in on every conversation in case someone had recognized him.

  He sagged in the chains. “How did you find me?”

  The inspector beamed. “De-duction. That’s what you’re always spouting, isn’t it? I have informants too, and one of them saw you in Whitechapel tonight. I knew you were hiding in Rotherhithe, so it was only a matter of waiting until you tried to return. You wouldn’t dare take the train, so that left the river, one of the bridges, or the Tower Subway. I had them all covered.”

  “Well done,” Keats muttered. That’s exactly how I would have handled it.

  Silence fell for the remainder of the journey. The inspector looked infinitely pleased with himself. The reporter remained quiet, studying Keats and making notes in his little book. No doubt it would be quite a coup—an American newshound present at the daring capture of the Mayfair Slayer.

  It wasn’t until Keats was manhandled into a carriage that his superior dropped the pleased-as-a-peacock attitude. Ramsey hauled himself into the conveyance and slammed the door with more force than necessary. He pounded on the roof and the carriage rolled off.

  “Why do you have a reporter with you?” Keats asked.

  “Warren’s orders. I don’t like it, either.” A pause. “Why in God’s name didn’t you turn yourself in?”

  “Flaherty. I was getting close to both him and the explosives.”

  “You’re not the only copper at the Yard, gnome.”

  Keats glared. “I am not a gnome, sir. I am a detective-sergeant, at least until such time as they give me the sack.”

  “Fisher tells me that Flaherty’s your alibi. If that’s the truth, you’re already on the gallows.”

  Keats nodded. “I know.” That’s just what you’re hoping for, isn’t it?

  “Who killed Effington?”

  “Could have been anyone. He’d been skimming off the top of every load. That adds up to a lot of enemies. It might even have been Flaherty himself.”

  Ramsey leaned back. “I want you to tell me everything that happened from the moment you arrived at the tart’s house that night. I want to hear all of it.”

  As if he cares. “If you’re keen to know my story, then I suggest you read the letter I wrote to Fish—”

  He found himself pinned against the back of the carriage by two massive hands. “I don’t care what you told Fisher. I want to hear it from you. Got it?” Ramsey growled.

  Keats managed a weak nod.

  The big man’s face split into a triumphant grin. “You know, I think you look more like a scared rabbit than a gnome.”

  “Note where the rabbit has his knee,” Keats replied coolly.

  Ramsey’s eyes roved downward, judging its proximity to his groin. He laughed and the hands retreated.

  “So tell me this amazing tale of yours, Sergeant.”

  After a deep breath, Keats began his report, skipping any mention of Clancy Moran. It took as long as the trip from Wapping to Leman Street Police Station, even though he’d pointedly left out his visit to Alastair’s this very night. Ramsey had only said he’d been spotted in Whitechapel, not at the doctor’s. Hopefully, that would spare his friend any further trouble.

  Much to Keats’ surprise, Ramsey didn’t interrupt once.

  “Helluva story,” the inspector remarked at the end.

  “Try living it.”

  A snort returned. “Why were you in Whitechapel?”

  The lie came easily. “Looking for Flaherty.”

  “You didn’t mention his daughter in your report to Fisher.”

  “Learned that after I posted the letter.”

  “You honestly believe that someone has him by the nads?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, what a cock-up,” Ramsey muttered. As the carriage drew to a halt, the inspector adjusted his coat. “Let’s get you into a cell and I’ll send word to the chief inspector that you’re safely in custody.”

  Keats remembered the headlines, the drubbing Fisher had taken on his behalf. “How’s he doing?”

  Ramsey’s expression flattened. “Looks a decade older. Your little crusade is going to cost him his job.”

  “That shouldn’t trouble you,” Keats shot back. “You’re next in line.”

  “Won’t trouble me in the least, if you’re guilty.”

  If? Perhaps there was hope for him yet. “Just find the damned explosives.”

  “And save your life?”

  Keats shook his head. “Not likely. Flaherty will be buying the first round the morning I swing.”

  Ramsey opened the door and grinned ghoulishly. “Who knows, I might buy the second one.”

  Bastard.

  ~••~••~••~

  Sunday, 28 October, 1888

  Spitalfields

  “I concur with your findings: a slight concussion, but nothing to the extent that would cause such issues with her memory,” Reuben replied, stepping back after his examination. Jacynda watched him placidly, the stuffed animal in her hands. “I know this is a delicate subject, but have you determined if she has been…violated?”

  “Mrs. Butler did not mention anything untoward after she helped her bathe this morning. I specifically asked her to be observant for any unusual signs. I was concerned that if I had another physician conduct such an intimate examination, it would frighten Jacynda even further.”

  “I agree.” Reuben looked back at the patient and winked. A wink returned. “I am so sorry I didn’t meet her before this,” he remarked regretfully.

  There was a pounding on the front door. Alastair opened it before Mrs. Butler could even exit the kitchen. It would take some time to realize he had someone to do for him. The young messenger held a telegram. Alastair dug a few coins out of his pocket and traded them for the paper. A quick glance proved it was from Lord Wescomb. The first line confirmed the worst.

  Keats in custody.

  “Oh, dear God,” he murmured. It was plain to see—his friend had been found because he’d brought Jacynda to Whitechapel.

  “Alastair?” Reuben probed. “Bad news
?”

  “It depends on how you look at it,” he replied, handing over the telegram. As he sank in a chair, a tide of emotions battled for supremacy. Keats would be safer in custody. And yet…

  “They’ll move him to Newgate at the first opportunity,” Reuben observed, dropping the telegram on the small table by the door. “I’ve never been inside there. I can only imagine what it’s like.”

  “I had hoped he would find Flaherty, secure his alibi.”

  “And then you wouldn’t have to testify?”

  Alastair looked up at his mentor, chagrined. “Yes. That sounds so selfish.”

  “Not really. You will state the truth, and that’s all you need do.”

  Alastair rose, his unease translating into motion. “I shall visit Keats as soon as possible, see how his wounds are healing. I did not have the chance last night.”

  Reuben raised an eyebrow. “Aiding a fugitive is frowned upon by the constabulary, though I heartily approve in this case.”

  “He brought Jacynda to me for treatment. He risked everything for her.”

  “Not the actions of a murderer, I would say,” Reuben observed.

  “No.” Alastair looked toward the patient. “Thank you for examining her.”

  “Wish I’d had better news.”

  The instant Reuben stepped outside, he smiled in approval. “Cleanest steps on the block. I knew you’d be the ideal tenant.”

  ~••~••~••~

  Keats held his breath as Chief Inspector Fisher entered the cell. He’d been dreading this since he’d read of Nicci Hallcox’s death. From the moment he’d joined Scotland Yard, there’d been a sort of synergy between him and his superior. Master and eager pupil. The first rift appeared when Fisher learned about the Transitives, that his sergeant was one of them. Now there was a wide gulf between them. Nearly all of it was Keats’ fault.

  After a quick look in his direction, the chief inspector scrutinized the room, as if he’d never been in a cell before. Then his superior began to pace, a sure sign of emotional turmoil in this most controlled of men.

  This was going to be worse than Keats had imagined. He straightened his collar and cuffs like he was up for inspection, even though he was wearing clothes fit for a dockworker and then cleared his throat. “How are you, sir?”

  The chief inspector’s gaze moved toward him, examining him with as much intensity as he had the cell. “I’ve been better, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Why in the hell didn’t you turn yourself in, man?” Fisher exploded. “Do you honestly believe you are above the law?”

  Taken aback at his ire, Keats could only sputter, “No, sir, I’m…I’m not. I felt I was the best choice to find Flaherty.”

  “That’s nonsense! While you were playing copper, the press hammered home your guilt. By now everyone has heard of the Mayfair Slayer and believes he’s good for the rope.”

  “You honestly think I’m capable of such an obscene act?” Keats demanded, his heart thumping wildly in his chest.

  The chief inspector turned away. A rough shake of the head. “No, I don’t. I think your only crime is being an overzealous fool.” He turned toward Keats. “It wouldn’t have been easy to sort out if you’d come in the moment this happened, but now it’s damned near impossible. Evidence is disappearing and—”

  “What evidence?”

  “The pawn ticket you were issued in Ingatestone, the one they found in your suit when they arrested you. Hulme claims it has gone missing. He also says he wasn’t able to find the pawnshop owner.”

  “What in the hell is going on?”

  “Pressure. Pressure unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s being brought to bear on all of us. There are those who do not want to see you acquitted, Sergeant.”

  Keats looked away, wrestling with his emotions. “That is clear enough.”

  “I expected far better of you, Jonathon. You have sincerely disappointed me.”

  That cut like a razor. All he’d ever wanted was to make this man proud of him. He’d done everything to that end, and now he was being taken to task for trying too hard. His anger mushroomed, sweeping aside all thoughts of caution.

  “And I expected better of you, sir,” he said sarcastically.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you bring Dr. Bishop into this case? Why not let the Home Office coroner deal with it? They’re impartial enough.”

  When Fisher made no reply, that goaded Keats on. “Now Alastair’s involved, and you know his record—that death in Wales. The Crown Prosecutor will have a merry time with that, the evidence be damned.”

  “It’s not for you to question my decisions, Sergeant.”

  “In this case, I shall. It’s my neck in the noose. So why did you involve Dr. Bishop?”

  “I trust him.”

  “That’s it? I would have thought the same of any of the others. What about all those lectures you gave me about impartiality, sir? It appears your decisions are just as erratic as mine.”

  His superior glared at him. “There is more at stake here than your life.”

  “Your job, perhaps?” Keats chided. “Don’t worry, Ramsey’ll be there to take over. He’s just been waiting for both of us to stumble.”

  “How dare you believe this is all about my position!” Fisher snarled.

  “In the end, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?” Keats replied. He strode to the cell door and thumped on it, eager to end this torment. A jailer appeared almost instantly. “We’re through here,” Keats barked.

  His superior passed him on the way out the door. As he heard Fisher’s footsteps retreating down the hallway, Keats cursed under his breath.

  He had failed not only himself and the Yard, but the one man who meant everything.

  Chapter 11

  Ramsey glowered as he jotted a line in his notebook. They’d visited every coffin maker they could find in Whitechapel. All claimed they could account for each piece of stock, and none employed a large Irish fellow who might be a Fenian.

  “No luck so far,” Anderson commented, surveying the scene around them. “Your job reminds me of mine. I spend the entire day wearing down my boot leather while people lie to me.”

  Ramsey snorted. “People in Whitechapel are closed mouthed. Jesus Christ himself could appear in the middle of Commercial Street, and no one would claim to have seen him. Well, except the toolers. They’d have his pockets picked in no time.”

  Anderson gave him a bemused expression.

  “It’ll happen some day, mark my word,” Ramsey added. “Best not to put that in your paper, though.”

  “Agreed. So now where do we go?”

  Ramsey flicked open his watch. That attracted the interest of a grubby boy loitering nearby. The copper shook his head at the pint-sized thief who scooted off in search of a less savvy victim.

  “Let’s find some food and then we’ll do the rounds of the pubs. See what we can hear.”

  “Surely they know you down here,” Anderson protested. “They wouldn’t talk to a cop.”

  Ramsey eyed him. “You’ve done some studying on me, haven’t you?”

  Anderson nodded. “You used to work at Leman Street Station. You spent a number of years in the Whitechapel district before you moved up to the Yard.”

  “Like Keats. He started in Arbour Square. Those are rough patches for new coppers.”

  “You both survived.”

  Ramsey grunted. “Tomorrow, we’ll go north to Ingatestone, check the sergeant’s alibi in that part of the country.”

  “You actually expect to find a coffin in the middle of the forest?” Anderson asked.

  “I once found one lying in the street with a gent in it. He’d been dead for a very long time, they said, at least one hundred years. Now how in the hell he got out of the ground we never did find out.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “Had him reburied and threw a wake. That’s about the only thing the Irish get right.”<
br />
  “You don’t like them, do you?” Anderson quizzed, his pencil suddenly appearing in his hand, the notebook open.

  The inspector didn’t hold his tongue. “I don’t like any of ’em—Irish, Hebrews, Germans, Poles, Russians,” he paused for effect, “even Americans, not if they’re making plans to bugger up my country. Now if they’re here to earn a few quid, raise their families, go to whatever sort of foreign church they go to, I’m good with all that. They start making explosives and spouting nonsense about revolution, and they become my enemies.”

  “That seems pretty simplistic.”

  “Coppers like it simple. We leave the politics and all that shite to the highborn. We just get on with the job.”

  “Did Sergeant Keats get on with the job, as you say?”

  “Yes. He’s a sharp one. Got up my nose every time he could.”

  “Did you do likewise?”

  Ramsey laughed. “Of course. That’s what inspectors are supposed to do.” He set off walking. “Food first. Oh, and mind that notebook and pen of yours.”

  “Why?”

  “They’ll steal you blind here, right down to the clothes you were wearing the day you were born.”

  “Sounds like Chicago,” Anderson replied, carefully tucking away the items.

  “Then you’ll feel right at home,” Ramsey shot back, leading the way.

  ~••~••~••~

  “There’s a little inflammation, but less than I thought there’d be,” Alastair replied, gently examining the healing rib. The bruises had faded to a dull gray-green.

  Keats observed his efforts solemnly. “Is Jacynda any better?”

  “No. Still very quiet and unsure. Mrs. Butler plans to take her to the market this afternoon just to get her out of the house. She’s not hard to manage, just very docile.”

  “So very unlike Jacynda,” Keats replied.

  Alastair nodded. “You can put your shirt back on.”

  As Keats slowly worked his way into the garment, the doctor packed his bag. Noise from the jail filtered into the cell.