Madman's Dance (Time Rovers)

by Jana Oliver

  “Fair enough.” She handed the priest a five-pound note. “Give it to the widow, will you? I think she’ll take it from you better than from me.”

  As Cynda turned to go, the cleric touched her arm. “That sergeant did the same. Why?”

  “Because he’s a good man. There aren’t many of them left.”

  As she reached the gate that led to the street, she looked back toward the grave. The priest was on his knees in the dirt, head bowed, evidently seeking divine guidance.

  Whatever it takes.

  ~••~••~••~

  Cynda returned to the church at the appointed hour, her stomach balled into a tight knot. Since she’d not received a reply from the prince, that left her trying to convince the Fenian to save a policeman’s neck. To prepare for the meeting, she’d spent the afternoon researching Flaherty, looking for any weaknesses. His daughter was the only one. Defoe was probably right: she was being foolish, but sometimes you just had to gamble.

  The church was deserted, the parishioners celebrating Guy Fawkes’ thwarted attempt to reform British government. She adjusted her shawl and hurried down the center aisle toward the altar. Two rows from the front, she slid into the pew and waited. And waited. No sign of the priest or the Fenian.

  Come on.

  There was a creak of wood as someone slipped into the pew behind her. Fighting the urge to turn around or fidget, she waited. After a few seconds, the man moved and took a place next to her.

  She looked over. Desmond Flaherty was scruffy, but there was intelligence in his tired eyes. He seemed different than that night in Green Dragon Place when he’d nearly killed Keats.

  “Why’re ya here?” Flaherty asked gruffly.

  “To save an innocent man.”

  “There’s nothin’ that can be done now.”

  “You were there that night,” she insisted. “You can tell them.”

  “They’ll not listen to an Irishman. They want the little sergeant dead, that’s plain enough.” He dug in a pocket and retrieved a small canvas bag. “These are his. Show ’em to the coppers and tell where ya got ’em. Maybe they’ll see he wasn’t lyin’.”

  She shook her head. “They can ignore the evidence. They can’t ignore a person. You have to come and testify.”

  Flaherty snorted and dropped the bag back into his coat. “Ya got no sense, girl. Why would I spend years in prison for a damned rozzer?”

  “Because it’s the decent thing to do. It’s what you would’ve done in the past.”

  His eyes flared with sudden anger. “What do ya know of it?”

  “I know your wife died because some damned fool decided to shoot into a crowd of unarmed citizens. You couldn’t kill the idiot with the gun, but you could harm the people who sent him. I understand revenge.” Better than you know.

  Flaherty shook his head. “I can’t. If I turn myself in, they’ll kill my daughter.”

  “The ones who can look like anyone they want?”

  The man’s breath caught.

  “I know about them,” she said.

  He looked around them, wary, and lowered his voice. “How?”

  “One of them tried to kill me.”

  “Was he was tall, black-haired, dark eyes like the Devil himself?”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  A snort. “Ya could be him, for all I know.”

  “But I’m not. How’s this for a bargain? You give written testimony that Keats was in Whitechapel at the time of the murder, and I’ll help you find your daughter.”

  The Fenian stared at her as if she’d just proclaimed herself Empress of India. She stuck out her hand. He didn’t take it. She left it outstretched.

  “You’ll not get a better offer,” she pledged, refusing to give an inch.

  “Written, ya say?”

  “Yes. We’ll go to Lord Wescomb and—”

  “No toffs.”

  “Wescomb is Keats’ barrister. He’s fighting to save the sergeant’s life.”

  The Irishman shook his head. “Don’t matter. I’ve been all over Whitechapel and couldn’t find Fee.”

  Her arm was beginning to cramp. “It’s simple: you want your daughter safe, and I want Keats alive.”

  “Why?” He cocked his head. “Are ya lovers?”

  “No. It’s deeper than that.”

  Flaherty glowered at her, then took another quick look around the empty church. Satisfied, he called out, “Ya hearin’ this, priest? What do ya say?”

  Father Nowlan stepped out from behind a cloth screen and crossed the sanctuary like a silent breath of wind. He sat in the pew in front of them.

  “It’s not what I say.” The cleric looked upward into his Savior’s mournful eyes. “It’s what He says. ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’”

  “Ah, by all the saints,” the Fenian muttered. “Paddy’s been ridin’ me, as well.”

  Cynda quirked an eyebrow. “Paddy?”

  “He was the one who took the copper into the woods. I’ve had to stop him from goin’ to the rozzers a couple of times. His heart’s too big.”

  She extended her hand further. “I’ll do everything I can to find your daughter. If Keats is free, he’ll do the same.”

  It was her last card. If the anarchist didn’t take it, she was out of the game.

  He studied her face and then gave the faintest of nods. His rough hand shook hers.

  My God.

  “I’ll get ya what ya need,” he said. “Be at the Aldgate Pump in an hour. But know this—if ya cross me, I’ll have no choice but to kill ya.”

  “Fair enough.” You’ll have to stand in line.

  ~••~••~••~

  “Mr. Keats? There is a gent to see you, sir.”

  A dark-suited man entered the condemned cell. He had prominent ears, closely cropped beard and a solemn demeanor.

  The executioner.

  “Good evening, Mr. Keats. I am Mr. Berry.”

  Keats stuck out his hand. “I would say it is a pleasure to meet you, but that would be lying, sir.”

  A slight smile stole across the hangman’s face. “I wished to speak to you of the morning.”

  “I understand.” Keats sat on his bed, composing himself.

  Berry cleared his throat. “Shortly before eight, I will come to you and pinion your arms. Once we are at the scaffold, I’ll place the white cap on your head and pull it down to cover your eyes. I will position the rope, and then shortly thereafter you will be at peace.”

  “I hope so,” Keats said. “I am a slight man, and that does give me concern as to your calculation of the drop.”

  “Approximately ten stone?” Keats nodded. “Then I shall employ a drop of six feet. That should be sufficient.”

  Keats felt his blood chill. This was an unholy science.

  “If this must happen, I am pleased you are to do it, sir,” he remarked. “You have an excellent reputation.”

  “Thank you. For my part, I urge you to make your confession so that you may find peace within yourself and with God.”

  “I have confessed, sir, but not to the crime for which I am being executed. I will not lie to satisfy the newspapers.”

  Berry paused. “You claim to be innocent?”

  “Yes. God knows my soul and when I stand before Him, I will repent for many things, but not the death of Nicola Hallcox. Her blood is not on my hands.”

  Berry shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “You will give me no trouble in the morning?”

  “None. You are only performing your duty.”

  A sigh of relief. “Then I shall take my leave. Rest easy. I shall make it painless.”

  For that, I will be eternally grateful.

  ~••~••~••~

  It felt like a wake.

  Alastair took a sip of the fine whiskey in his hand. Across Lord Wescomb’s study, Chief Inspector Fisher also had a whiskey, but he’d not touched it. Lady Sephora sat near the fire, an e
mbroidered shawl around her shoulders, as if the room would never be warm enough. Her husband was at his desk, pouring through a stack of law books and muttering to himself. Every now and then, he’d slap a book shut and select another.

  “John,” the lady called out. He looked up instantly. “Come sit with us. You have done what you could.”

  His lordship closed his eyes for a moment, then rose from his desk with a sigh. He sat near his wife, taking hold of her hand.

  “There has to be a way to stop this madness,” he murmured.

  “I don’t think there is,” Fisher replied, his voice flat. “It is much like a runaway train. You can apply the brakes, tear up the track, and nothing happens. It only goes faster.”

  Alastair took a sip of his whiskey, letting it burn down his throat.

  Jacynda cannot let Keats die. But where was she? What was she doing?

  His thoughts drifted to the prisoner. Keats had been very quiet that afternoon, and that had made their last meeting particularly poignant. To keep himself from breaking down, the sergeant had spoken of his nephew, of his grandparents. At the end, he mentioned he’d brought his will up to date. In all ways, Keats was disengaging himself from this world. Preparing himself for the end.

  As we all must.

  ~••~••~••~

  It was an odd procession. Cynda held the lead, followed by Flaherty and the hulking presence of Paddy. For a big man, he moved fairly quietly. Flaherty, to Cynda’s surprise, was damn near silent.

  No wonder Keats had trouble finding this guy.

  She’d not expected Paddy to come with them, but he’d insisted. When that decision had been made, Flaherty swore under his breath.

  “They’ll put ya in jail, ya know that.”

  Paddy nodded. “I did wrong. It’s not as bad as some say.”

  “He probably won’t mind prison. He’s too big for anyone to bully,” Mr. Spider observed.

  As they’d made their way across London to Marylebone, first by omnibus and then on foot, they’d worked through the stages of this unlikely marriage of convenience. The first part had been devoted to threats. Flaherty had let her know if this was a trap, she was the first to die. She’d retaliated by telling him that if anything happened to Lord Wescomb, nobody would take the time to find his daughter. She’d expected him to react in anger. Instead, he’d given her a grave nod and set his jaw.

  They’d walked the last mile, nerves on edge, none of them knowing when they’d encounter a constable on his beat. Cynda kept moving ahead at a pace steady enough to make progress without triggering anyone’s interest, the pair following her lead. Their dress was too shabby for this part of town, but that couldn’t be helped. Flaherty in full evening dress wasn’t going to make this meeting any more acceptable.

  Cynda paused at Wescombs’ front door, doubt forming a lump in her throat. This could go wrong in so many ways. Squaring her shoulders, she knocked. Behind her the two men waited, knives concealed from view.

  The moment after the door opened, she began working on the face. Howard Brown. According to the notes on the pendant, she’d gotten the butler his job with the Wescombs. The smile on Brown’s face was genuine. That made it worse. It felt like she was betraying a friend. No matter what happened, he was going to detest her before the evening was over.

  “Miss Lassiter,” he exclaimed with a smile. “How unexpected.” The smile vanished when he noticed the pair behind her.

  “Mr. Brown,” she greeted awkwardly. “I’m sorry, but this has to happen. These two gents need to be inside…now.”

  “Miss, I can’t allow that. They don’t look—”

  Flaherty pushed forward, pressing his knife against the butler’s fine coat just at heart level. “Best not to think, my friend. Just let us in, nice and gentle, and this’ll go right fine.”

  The butler’s eyes widened as his hand headed for his pocket. Cynda grabbed it, then removed the pistol lodged inside.

  Too close.

  The knife pressed harder, to the point where Brown winced.

  “What is this?” he demanded.

  “I’ll tell you more once we’re inside,” Cynda said. She started to put the gun in an empty pocket, but Paddy took possession of it.

  That was fine. As long as they don’t know about the other one.

  Brown’s face grew grave. “If any harm comes to the Wescombs, I’ll see all of you hang for this.”

  “Fair enough,” Cynda conceded. “Inside, now. The longer we’re on the street, the more danger there is.”

  The moment the door closed, Brown’s quick breaths rose in intensity. His eyes moved to the coat rack and back to her in a silent plea. Two bowlers.

  Ah, crap. “Who else is here?” she demanded.

  “People you don’t want to annoy,” Brown replied. “I suggest you be on your way.”

  “Who is it?” she pressed.

  Brown glowered. “Besides my employers, a chief inspector of Scotland Yard and Dr. Montrose.”

  “Chief Inspector Fisher?”

  The butler gave a terse nod.

  Oh, stellar.

  Flaherty chuckled. “We’re playin’ to a full house. Take us in quiet as ya can. Yer gonna announce the woman, and then she’ll tell ’em who we are. Course, two of the gents’ll know me right personal.”

  Every step down the hallway drew them closer to the moment when it could all fall apart. If Flaherty didn’t keep his word, he could kill the lot of them. When they stopped at the door, the anarchist flicked his knife closed. He casually lit a cigar and took a long puff. Smoke clouded around them.

  “Put that out!” Brown grumbled.

  Flaherty ignored him. “Don’t raise a fuss. I don’t want to hurt anyone, and that’s God’s truth.”

  Brown shifted his eyes toward her, making one last silent appeal.

  “We’re here about Sergeant Keats, nothing more,” she said.

  A low sigh came from the man. He tapped on the door, awaited the response and then entered.

  “My lord, my lady. I…apologize, but a situation has arisen over which I have no control.”

  Wescomb leaned forward. “What sort of situation, Brown?”

  Cynda stepped around the butler.

  “Jacynda?” Alastair called out, rising with a smile. “Were you able to—”

  “I’m sorry about this, but there is no other way.”

  She stepped aside to allow the most dangerous man in Britain into the room.

  Chapter 4

  “Good God!” Fisher shouted, leaping to his feet. “Flaherty!”

  The cop’s wide-eyed stare brought her attention back to the Fenian. Flaherty brandished a tight bundle of dynamite, three sticks bound with cord. One short central fuse rose from the creation.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  With a grin, he puffed on his cigar, causing the end to grow brilliant red. Then he brought it uncomfortably close to the end of the fuse.

  “Good evenin’, all,” Flaherty greeted jovially. “I hope ya don’t mind me smokin’ here.”

  Alastair rose, his hands balled into fists. Next to him, Sephora’s pale fingers clutched the arms of her chair, her eyes riveted on the dynamite.

  “What is this?” Wescomb demanded, rising from his chair as well. “Why are you here with…that?”

  Cynda cut in before things got any worse. “As the chief inspector noted, this is Desmond Flaherty,” she glared at him, “who failed to mention he was bringing dynamite to this meeting.” She shifted her eyes back to the others in the room. “And this is Paddy O’Donnell,” she told them, indicating the man to her left. “They’re here about Keats.”

  Despite his wary expression, realization dawned on the peer. “I see. Brown, come over here and sit next to the chief inspector so as not to alarm our…guests.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Not to worry, Brown. Just have a seat.” The butler did as he was told, glaring at Cynda the entire time. “The rest of you, please settle in so M
r. Flaherty does not feel inclined to use his cigar in an explosive fashion.”

  Cynda didn’t sit, but purposely positioned herself behind the anarchists. Tempted as she was to jam her hand into her pocket to feel the comfort of the pistol hidden there, she didn’t dare. That was her edge. Could she shoot Flaherty faster than he could light a fuse? And what about Paddy?

  “Holding us hostage—”

  “Not doin’ that,” Flaherty replied to Fisher’s accusation. At his nod, his companion produced a couple sheets of dog-eared paper from inside his coat and handed them to Alastair. “Yer little sergeant’s due to hang in the mornin’,” the anarchist explained. “I’m here to see that doesn’t happen.”

  “Good heavens!” Alastair exclaimed, shifting through the papers. “These are witness statements regarding the night of the Hallcox murder.”

  Flaherty nodded. “Keats was in Whitechapel with us when that posh lady was killed. He could’na strangled her. Ya see, I was one step away from cutting out his liver, when the mercy of God stayed my hand.” His laugh was low and harsh. “Nah, that’s not right. It was that damned priest’s fault. Instead of cuttin’ him up, I had Paddy hit the rozzer on the jaw and take him into the country to get him out of the way for a time.”

  The chief inspector’s face displayed a volatile mixture of indignation and sudden hope. “How did you get him out of London?”

  “In a coffin,” Paddy replied. “I makes them. It’s steady work.”

  No kidding.

  Fisher pressed on. “Where did you leave Sergeant Keats?”

  “Near Stock, in the woods.”

  “Keats said he walked for a very long time before he reached the train tracks,” Alastair recalled.

  Paddy shrugged his huge shoulders. “If’n he’d gone south, he’d a been right in Stock quick as ya please. Musta got lost.”

  “Did you tie him up?” Fisher asked.

  A nod. “With some strips of red cloth.”

  Cynda moved her attention away from Flaherty for a moment. Alastair was studying the papers, hands trembling. When his eyes rose to meet hers, she winked. That earned her a nervous smile.