by Jana Oliver
Keats’ bravado faded. “Neither had I.”
“I asked for you to be put in your own cell,” Wescomb explained. “I felt you would be safer that way.”
“Thank you, my lord. How bad is it?”
Wescomb didn’t hesitate. “It appears formidable. The butler is the lynchpin of their case. I hope to pound home the fact that he’s a drunkard and that he harbored ill will toward you. Other than your calling card, the Crown has no other evidence you were there.”
Keats retreated to the bed. “Sorry, I have no chairs,” he said, keeping his back to them to allow himself time to regain his composure.
“Where would the killer have obtained your card?” Alastair asked.
“Oh, anywhere,” Keats replied absentmindedly. “I am very free with them.”
“Did you leave one with Miss Hallcox the night of the party?” Wescomb asked.
“No,” he replied, turning back. “I wanted no trace of me to remain in that household.”
“Have you seen the card, my lord?” Alastair asked.
“I have not.”
“Surely Fisher would know my card,” Keats insisted.
“Nevertheless, I think it would be of value to have someone examine it. I am leery of leaving anything to chance.”
“Excellent idea. I shall arrange it.” Wescomb tugged on his waistcoat out of habit. “I do have other unpleasant news, Sergeant. Your trial has been scheduled for Wednesday next.”
“Wednesday?” Keats repeated incredulously. “Keen to get it over with, aren’t they?”
“I sense that, yes,” Wescomb concurred with a grim nod. “All I can offer are my best efforts.”
“In all honesty, my lord, I could not hope for a more spirited defender.”
“Alas, that spirit must be tempered in some regard. I shall present your case with extreme care. If I portray Miss Hallcox as a scheming woman inclined toward blackmail, it will only give the Crown Prosecutor further ammunition as to your potential motive. I have asked Kingsbury to help me with this matter. He is a very able assistant. He often sees things I miss.”
“I leave it in your hands, my lord.”
“I advise you to get your rest.” As Wescomb reached the door, he turned. “If you need anything else, or think of something that may sway matters in your favor, send word immediately.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
The moment the cell door closed and the footsteps echoed away, Keats turned to Alastair. “How is Jacynda?”
“She has gone home.”
“You mean…?” Keats began.
“Yes. They gave their word they will care for her.”
“You actually talked to them?”
“Not directly. It was through their marvelous technology. You should have seen it, Keats. Remarkable!”
The wonder in his friend’s voice sounded genuine. “I wish I had. At least she is safe.” When Alastair didn’t reply, Keats pressed. “She is, isn’t she?”
“I believe so,” the doctor sighed. “Her sudden disappearance has required me to claim she’s been sent away, to a specialist in brain diseases. Mrs. Butler accepted the lie, but I’m not so sure if the Wescombs will.”
“Lady Wescomb will probably want to visit her.”
“That is my concern. Unfortunately, this means Jacynda is unavailable to testify on your behalf.”
Keats gave a dispirited shrug. “It wouldn’t matter. If she were still of right mind, she would only say that I was at the hotel until about half past nine. I could have easily returned to Mayfair and throttled Nicci with time to spare.”
“She would at least have been able to indicate your mental state, that you meant Miss Hallcox no harm.”
“I did not tell Jacynda of my decision, nor where I was headed. I didn’t want a lecture.” Keats sank onto the bed. “Now that I think of it, better a lecture than being here.”
When the cell door closed behind his friend, Keats swung himself into the bed and stared upward at nothing. The trial would last two or three days and then his life would rest in the hands of twelve men. If they acquitted him, he would need to rebuild his reputation and his career. If he were found guilty, they would hang him after three Sundays had passed, as was the law.
Twenty-one days in which to regret he’d ever met Nicci Hallcox.
~••~••~••~
“A senior official from the Home Office is waiting in your study, your lordship,” Brown announced the moment Wescomb entered the front door.
“Why is he here?” he grumbled, taking the proffered card. “It’s like I’m some prize hunting dog they can whistle to their side any time they desire. I grow very weary of this.”
“As you say, my lord,” Brown replied tactfully.
Wescomb had barely placed his valise on his desk when his visitor delivered his broadside. For a few seconds his lordship thought he’d misheard. Then the stipulation clicked into place.
“That is not a condition, but a death sentence,” he protested.
The senior official shook his head. “It is not as grave as you make it out.”
“It is imperative the truth be revealed in court.”
“Your concerns will be noted, my lord, but it is our position that the public not be aware that explosives are still in the hands of anarchists. It will cause a panic, especially with Guy Fawkes Day approaching. We cannot risk that.”
“The explosives are the primary reason Sergeant Keats put himself in jeopardy, why he risked his career and did not turn himself into the authorities,” Wescomb argued. “If I am not allowed to submit that point for the jury’s consideration, then my case is as gutted as a fish at Billingsgate Market!”
“I know it’s a blow, but even the Prime Minister agrees—no mention of the explosives may be made, except those that were confiscated last month.”
“Good God,” Wescomb muttered. “You wouldn’t even have those if it weren’t for Keats. The Crown’s gratitude is as thin as a beggar’s shoe leather.”
“He has only himself to blame for being in the dock,” his visitor replied, his expression as unfeeling as his words.
Lord Wescomb stared. “You can’t honestly believe he killed that woman?”
“Guilty or innocent, it really doesn’t matter. Our concern is that the public not be exposed to anything that might generate a panic.”
The fellow paused at the door to Wescomb’s study. “There is one other matter…”
Wescomb glowered. “And that is?”
“It has come to our attention that a number of prominent men were involved with the victim. The mention of their names in open court would be quite damaging to their reputations and…to those within the government. You are to steer away from revealing the identities of those whose cards were found in the victim’s possession.”
Wescomb’s mouth fell open in astonishment.
“Lest you believe we have unduly hamstrung your case, I have already spoken about this matter with the Crown Prosecutor. He will hew to the same restriction. So it is even ground for both parties.”
Wescomb rose. “Why are your masters trying to kill this man?”
The emissary’s face turned grave. He opened his mouth and then closed it.
“Why?” Wescomb challenged.
“In truth, I have no idea, my lord.”
The moment he was alone, Wescomb headed for the drinks cabinet. Very soon Sephora would appear at the door to his study, asking what the commotion had been about.
How do I tell her that I’ve lost the case before it has even begun?
A few minutes later, a light tap on his door.
“John?”
“Come in, my dear,” he answered. He felt the need to refill his whiskey, but it would make no difference.
His wife was clad in one of his favorite gowns—the one that looked like violets in the spring. It fit her perfectly, contrasting with her silvered hair. She had been a beauty when she was young. She still was.
“What is wrong?�
�� she asked, gliding to a chair. “What did Home Office want?”
“For me to allow Sergeant Keats an unfettered walk to the gallows.”
She froze. “Why in heaven’s name would they wish that?”
“The word has come down that I am not to mention the names of those degenerates whose cards were found in Miss Hallcox’s possession. Nor am I to mention that there are still explosives at large. Can you imagine such a thing?”
Sephora frowned. “But those are key points of your defence. You must be allowed to introduce an element of doubt, that her murderer could be any number of men given the woman’s sordid behavior.”
“Well, that defence is now useless.”
“But…that’s ridiculous!”
“I know. The butler may be a drunkard, but he did see someone in Keats’ form heading toward his mistress’ bedchamber. It had to be a Transitive, though it is appalling to think that one of us committed such a vile crime,” he replied.
Sephora fussed with a stray string on her cuff.
“I’m sorry to distress you so, my dear.”
“This, on top of what has happened to Jacynda, is almost too much to bear,” she said. “I intended to visit her, but this morning I received a message from Dr. Montrose. She has left London, for treatment.”
Wescomb gave into temptation and returned to the drinks cabinet for more whiskey.
~••~••~••~
2057 A.D.
TEM Enterprises
Boredom quickly set in. It’d been a day or so since the man with the flower had visited her and asked all those questions she couldn’t answer. The physician had been to see her, but he just muttered under his breath and made a lot of noises with his instruments.
Cynda studied the blue line on the machine. It was longer now. They told her that was a good sign. She swung a foot over the edge of the bed. Maybe they had a Mouse Lady here and she could follow her around. She’d like that.
When her feet touched the floor she waited for her head to pound, but it didn’t. Just a dull ache. The cold metal on her left wrist did bother her, so she gave the band a solid tug. It didn’t come off, and just continued to blink.
Chilly, she pulled the blanket off the bed and wrapped it over her baggy top and pants. As she approached, the door opened on its own. She stepped back, and it closed. Forward, and it opened. She laughed and clapped her hands. This was fun.
Once through the door, something beeped and the thing on her wrist vibrated. She jumped back at the sensation, frantically jerking at the band. It was blinking more rapidly now. Maybe she should go back to the bed. Then it settled into a steady rhythm and the vibrating stopped.
She stuck her head out of the doorway again, looking both ways. No one challenged her, not like at the other crazy place. In fact, there was no one around at all.
Cynda headed down the hallway, dragging the blanket behind her. She paused near a window and stared out at a large courtyard bathed in brilliant sunlight. There was a wooden building in the middle of it, surrounded by white sand. At the very tips of the roof were strange figures with long tails.
“What are you?” she whispered. She wandered along until she found a door. It opened automatically. This time she wasn’t surprised when the band on her wrist vibrated.
“Come off,” she demanded, pulling on it. It wouldn’t budge. That would have to change.
Once outside, she tilted her face upward and sucked in the sun’s welcoming rays. This felt right. A cloud marched by. It was big and looked like a… She groaned. The word wouldn’t come. So many of them didn’t.
Lowering her eyes, she saw the sand. It reflected the light in a myriad of different colors, like a… Another word gone. She stepped onto the white surface. Something was wrong.
She took another step. Nothing happened. That puzzled her.
“Miss Lassiter?”
She turned, bulldozing sand with her toes. Behind her were two men: the one with the ponytail and the solemn one. Had the thing on her wrist told them she was here?
Cynda pointed at the wooden structure and stuck out her chin defiantly. “I am going there.”
The solemn one nodded his approval. “Spend as much time as you wish. If you want food, we will arrange to have it brought to you.”
She turned her back on them, intent on her destination.
“Do you think she knows what happened?” the other man asked.
“I doubt it.”
It didn’t matter if they talked about her. She just liked being outside. There was white sand that didn’t act right and a lot of blue above her. That was good. She sat on a square pillow, pulling the blanket around herself to keep warm. When she looked back the men were gone. She sighed in relief. Closing her eyes, she thought of kittens and string.
When it began to turn dark, the solemn one, the one who said his name was Morrisey, came for her. “Time to call it a day, Miss Lassiter.”
“Jacynda,” she corrected proudly. That she could remember.
She rose stiffly and followed him. When she stepped off the sand, she abruptly halted. “What are they called?”
He turned around. “Pardon?”
She pointed upward at the creatures on the building. “Those.”
“They’re celestial dragons.”
“Cel…lestial dragons,” she repeated. “Do they eat people?”
“They won’t hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about. They guard the temple and whoever is inside it.”
She liked that idea. “What did you say your name was?”
“Morrisey.”
“I’m Jacynda,” she announced.
A bemused smile. “I know. What did you think about while you were sitting out there?”
“Kittens.”
He gave her an odd look. “Why kittens?”
“They chase string.”
“Did you used to have a kitten?”
Did I? “I don’t know,” she admitted. “What are they again?”
It took him a moment to recall her question. “Celestial dragons.”
“I like them.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Feel free to ask me anything you wish.”
As they walked, she pondered that offer. “Was I always like this?”
“No, you weren’t.”
“What happened?”
He hesitated and then suddenly veered toward the sand again, gesturing for her to follow. Kneeling, he scooped up a white handful. “This is what your mind used to be like.” He spread his fingers, letting the sand drain out in rivulets. When nearly all of it was gone, he closed his fingers again, stopping the flow. “You’ve lost a lot of your memories and your ability to connect objects with their names.”
She looked at what was left in his palms. It didn’t seem like much. “Will it get better?”
“Maybe.”
Cynda turned, studying the structure behind them. “Why do they live up there?”
This time, he knew what she meant. “I don’t know,” he replied, dusting off his hands as he rose. “Maybe they like it there.”
“Do they have one of these on them?” she asked, holding up her wrist to expose the blinking band.
“No. You’re only wearing that because we’re afraid you’ll get lost.”
“I won’t,” she assured him. “I know where I am.”
He looked genuinely puzzled. “You do?”
Cynda nodded. “I’m here,” she declared, gesturing toward the ground. “Where else would I be?”
He smiled, although his eyes still looked serious. “How Zen. Come along, you need your rest.”
Cynda kept looking at the dragons over her shoulder as she followed the man named…whatever it was. She’d come back in the morning. Maybe the dragons would talk to her then. She bet they knew things no one else did.
Chapter 17
Wednesday, 31 October, 1888
Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)
With Keats’ name in nearly every newspaper, it
wasn’t surprising most of London’s underworld was here. The criminals wanted a front row seat for this one, a rare chance to see a copper sweat.
From his position in the dock, Keats had a clear view of the courtroom. In front of him was the chair from which the judge would make his pronouncements and sum up the case for the jury. To Keats’ left was the jury box and to his right the spectator’s gallery. It was filling rapidly. He recognized some of the faces: petty thieves and confidence men he’d arrested, a few of the prostitutes, a forger, and some of the local toughs.
Then he heard the catcalls start up.
“’ey rozzer, bet ya wanna be up ’ere now, don’t ya?” A chorus of laughter. “They’ll ’ave to cut the rope mighty short for that one.”
In reality, the rope would have to be longer because of his slight weight. Keats inwardly grimaced: knowledge was not always a good thing. He stiffened his resolve, if nothing more than to uphold the reputation of Scotland Yard.
Just in front of the spectator’s gallery was where the barristers sat. Lord Wescomb would be to the left of the long table, the Crown Prosecutor on the right. Just behind the barristers sat the privileged witnesses and visitors. That section was already crowded. He saw familiar faces, and that cheered him.
Alastair was talking animatedly to another man, most likely Reuben Bishop. Seated a short distance away was Lady Sephora Wescomb. Her anxiety was displayed by the constant fussing with the strings of her reticule. The Chief Inspector sat next to her, pointedly not looking in Keats’ direction. In the second row was Keats’ cousin Roddy, dispatched by his grandparents to provide daily reports on the trial’s progress. His usual gay demeanor was missing. When Roddy peered up at him, Keats gave a slight smile, hoping to allay the young man’s fear. It proved futile. Roddy had always looked up to him, called him a hero. Now he saw that even his cousin’s feet were made of clay.
Keats tugged on his coat sleeves. The action did nothing to obscure the chains at his wrists. Every movement generated a rattle. It was humiliating and the extra weight made his healing rib ache. How many men had he put in this very dock? How many had been innocent?
