Madman's Dance (Time Rovers)

by Jana Oliver

  “Tell me precisely what happened that night,” Fisher ordered.

  Flaherty frowned. “It’s on the papers.”

  “Tell me anyway.” A pause. “Please.”

  “One of my men said he saw the sergeant talkin’ to that whore…Red Annie,” Flaherty explained. “We found him near Old Montague Street about quarter till eleven.”

  “You sure about the time?” Wescomb quizzed.

  “I am.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He tried to arrest the lot of us, can you believe it?” Flaherty shook his head. “That rozzer’s got some brass.”

  With another nod from his boss, Paddy unceremoniously dropped a canvas bag on the polished walnut table next to Alastair. Passing the papers to Sephora, the doctor opened the sack. The first item to hand: a pocket watch. A flick of the cover and a sigh of relief. “It’s Keats’. It’s inscribed to him.”

  “Right sorry about breakin’ it,” Paddy offered sheepishly. “It happened when I hit him.”

  Alastair’s face lit up. “It’s stopped at 10:57.”

  Wescomb’s moustache twitched upward in a smile. “Are you two willing to swear in court that Sergeant Keats was in your presence on that night at that exact time?”

  “I won’t,” Flaherty stated flatly. “That paper’ll speak for me.”

  “I’m not sure they’ll believe a piece of paper.”

  The Irishman looked over at his companion.

  Paddy nodded. “I’ll tell ’em. It ain’t right, him hangin’ for somethin’ he didn’t do, even if he is a filthy rozzer.”

  Fisher whistled under his breath. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because this young lady made a deal with me,” Flaherty replied.

  “What deal? If you think—”

  “Mr. Flaherty needs our help, Chief Inspector, and even though I know that goes against your grain, that’s the deal,” Cynda replied.

  “What sort of help?” Fisher demanded.

  “It’s my daughter, Fiona. She was workin’ in Effington’s household and went missin’ right after I stole the explosives. Someone took her. I can’t find her now. None of us can. Ahearn got close, and they cut his throat.”

  “Ahearn,” Fisher said. “We thought—”

  Flaherty shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. He was like family to me. And God help the bastard who did if I ever find him.”

  “Where are the explosives?” Fisher asked.

  Flaherty’s face clouded over. “If ya find my daughter, I’ll give ya the lot of them with no trouble.”

  The chief inspector leaned back into his chair with a whoosh of air. “I’ll be deuced.”

  “With these statements and the new evidence,” Alastair said, gesturing toward the watch, “will that be enough to halt the execution?”

  Wescomb’s lips thinned. “Perhaps. It depends on who is willing to listen to us.”

  “Would Justice Hawkins help us?” Alastair asked.

  “We may need to go to the Lord Chief Justice himself.”

  Fisher looked intently at the Fenian. “Who are these people who took your daughter?”

  “I don’t know their names,” Flaherty replied. “They look like anyone they want.”

  Silent words were traded around the room.

  “I see,” Wescomb replied. “I have heard of such people.”

  “They are usin’ my daughter to make sure I do what they want. If I don’t, they said they’d gut her like one of the Ripper’s…” His voice caught, and he lowered the dynamite. The cigar was going out, but he made no attempt to prevent it.

  “Good Lord!” Sephora exclaimed. “How old is she?”

  “Just sixteen, ma’am, though she claims to be older. She’d said she’d got herself a position. I didn’t know it was at that bastard’s house, or I’d’ve never let her go near him.”

  The chief inspector cocked his head. “Did you kill Hugo Effington?”

  “No, I didn’t get the chance. I woulda, though, and been quite proud of the job.”

  Wescomb thumbed through the papers. “Very complete.” He looked up, scanning the faces around the room. “It might be enough, along with Mr…O’Donnell’s testimony.”

  “God, I hope so,” Alastair murmured.

  Makes two of us.

  The clock began to chime. When it reached nine, Flaherty straightened up. “Is it a deal?”

  “I do not like this precedent,” Fisher complained, shaking his head. “Nevertheless, it’s the best we have. If it saves Keats’ life, I will live with it.” He looked over at Flaherty. “Your man must remain here. I will personally see to his safety.”

  “It wouldn’t be right to punish him for my sins,” Flaherty protested. “It was me who told him to take the rozzer out of Whitechapel. I thought if I bought myself some time, I’d find Fiona, set it all right.”

  “I will do what I can when it comes to Mr. O’Donnell’s defence,” Wescomb pledged.

  Cynda kept her smile to herself. The big Irishman had just scored a peer of the realm as his barrister. The gesture wasn’t lost on Flaherty. He gave Cynda a pleased look and then an approving nod.

  “That’s all right, then.”

  Wescomb rose, the papers in his hand. “As far as I am concerned, you brought these papers to us to right a wrong, not because of your daughter. It will not play well with the jury if they feel you are to receive some reward for your testimony.”

  Both Fenians nodded. “I didn’t take no brass for this,” Paddy added, “and I won’t have no one say I did.”

  Wescomb smiled. “Over here, gents; let’s get these signed.”

  As Flaherty approached the peer’s desk, he tossed the dynamite to a startled Brown. “Hold this. I’ll want it back, ya understand?”

  Cynda rolled her eyes.

  “Sign or make your mark, sir,” Wescomb said, handing Flaherty a pen.

  The Fenian bent over and scrawled his name at the bottom of the document.

  While Paddy placed an “X” on his statement, Sephora made her way toward Cynda. Her face was pale, her eyes sharp. Cynda braced herself.

  “I see Alastair’s report of your recovery has not been exaggerated,” Sephora whispered. “While I am pleased by that, what in heaven’s name kept this man from killing all of us if this had gone ill?”

  Cynda tapped her pocket. “This pistol. I was behind him the entire time.”

  “You would have shot him in the back?” her ladyship asked, incredulous.

  “Yes, if it came to that.”

  Sephora’s sharp gaze softened. “It was an incredible gamble.”

  “No, it was insanity. Gambling is less risky.”

  With a nod, the woman swept away. Cynda suspected it would be awhile before she was welcomed here again.

  Alastair joined her a moment later. “You are…” he shook his head in dismay.

  “I thought it’d only be Wescomb tonight. I had hoped Sephora would be upstairs or at one of her meetings. I had no idea the rest of you were here.”

  “It still might not work.”

  “It has to.”

  After a moment’s reflection, he asked, “Would you do such an outrageous thing for me?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  He gently touched her cheek. “That pleases me to hear it.”

  She leaned closer to ask a question. His eyes widened, and then he shook his head.

  “Good,” she replied. “That might make it easier.”

  “There is no guarantee that he wasn’t one of Nicci’s paramours. He might not have left his card behind.”

  “It’s just a chance I’m going to have to take.”

  “Miss Lassiter?” It was the chief inspector. Alastair stepped aside.

  “You are extremely fit for someone who was unable to testify only a few days ago,” the policeman observed. “Another remarkable recovery on your part.”

  “I assure you, Chief Inspector, I was truly incapacitated.”

  “Perhaps.�
� He half turned to watch his lordship talking to the two Fenians. When he looked back, he barely succeeded in keeping his composure. “I don’t know how you did that, but I owe you for it.”

  “Don’t let them hang Keats. That’s all I ask.”

  “That might be more difficult than you think.”

  Desmond Flaherty exited the house via the servant’s entrance and melted into the darkness, Cynda at his side. “Glad I didn’t have to use the dynamite. Woulda made a helluva mess.”

  “You wouldn’t have had the chance.”

  “The pistol in yer pocket?” he asked, a sly grin spreading across his face.

  “You knew?”

  “Of course. Ya let go of the other one too easy-like.”

  She chuckled. “You’re an old fox.”

  “I’ll hold ya to that bargain, missy,” he declared, his voice suddenly taut. “I want my daughter back, one way or another. Ya hear?”

  Cynda nodded.

  The anarchist had crossed sides tonight, putting both his life and his daughter’s on the line. No matter what happened, they owed him, even if Keats didn’t survive.

  ~••~••~••~

  The change into the posh clothes was the easy part. She made a point of wearing the necklace the prince had sent her in gratitude for supposedly saving his life. That event seemed so long ago now, though it had only been a few weeks by the 1888 calendar.

  Now came the hard part—taking on Victorian society at one of its most stalwart locations—the gentlemen’s club. It took a great deal of negotiating skill to even get her inside the door and parked in a sequestered room away from the main part of the establishment. Theo Morrisey-level skill, to be honest. She’d kept calm, explained her purpose, and then refuted every one of the objections, including the one concerning her sex.

  “If this is some ploy to garner the prince’s interest—” the club steward warned, brows furrowed.

  “I am involved in an investigation.” She produced the Pinkerton card with her name on it, the one Ralph had created.

  The steward stared at it, dumbfounded.

  “The case involves stolen explosives. A large amount of which could be used against the Royal family.”

  The man kept staring at the card. She opened her mouth to give him hell, but then closed it. He was working through the options, and none of them looked attractive from his point of view. If he chucked her out the door and she was legit, he was in for it. If he annoyed the future king with a crazy woman, he might well lose his cushy job.

  She greased the wheels. “I consulted on this very issue earlier this evening with Chief Inspector Fisher of Special Branch and Lord Wescomb, a member of Parliament.” Fisher’s and Wescomb’s cards traded hands.

  Those cards tipped the scales in her favor. “I shall speak with the prince’s equerry,” the steward announced before heading into the den of nineteenth-century testosterone. She settled on the couch, a heavily brocaded thing with lilies carved into the walnut back. She’d half expected it to have nude nymphs instead.

  “Amazing,” her delusion announced, sidling along the piece of furniture. “I figured you’d be out of here in a flash.”

  Second miracle of the night.

  “This one’s a long shot,” the spider added. “He didn’t answer your note.”

  Doesn’t matter. I have to pull out all the stops.

  Seven minutes later, the steward returned with another man. She guessed him to be the prince’s equerry and in his hand were the calling cards.

  Fortunately, he recognized her from Effington’s party, which was good. She didn’t remember him.

  “Miss Lassiter,” he acknowledged with a slight bow. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

  “Thank you,” she said, itching to get on with this. “I need to speak to the prince, or at least pass a message to him.”

  He gave the steward a look and the man took the hint, leaving them alone.

  “His Highness received your message this morning.”

  “And did not answer me,” she said directly. “With all due respect, sir, this is far beyond polite correspondence.”

  As succinctly as possible, Cynda presented the equerry with an overview of why Keats must live to see another day, including Flaherty’s testimony.

  Meanwhile, the man fingered the three calling cards. “What is Lord Wescomb doing about this new evidence?”

  “He and Fisher are speaking with anyone who will listen to them. They want a stay of execution so the new evidence can be presented. It should lead to Keats’ exoneration.”

  “Why would this anarchist come forward?” the man asked bluntly.

  “To save his daughter’s life,” she responded.

  By the time she’d finished telling him about Fiona, she realized they were not alone. Someone stood at the doorway. How long he’d been there, she was uncertain. Cynda remembered the face from the photos she’d studied in the carriage on the way over. She rose and curtsied deeply. “Your Royal Highness. I apologize for interrupting your evening.”

  “Miss Lassiter,” the Prince of Wales acknowledged, his heavy-lidded eyes traveling the length of her in frank appraisal. “You are a very persistent woman.” He indicated the cards in his equerry’s hand. “I was not aware you are with Pinkerton’s.”

  “We have kept it rather quiet.”

  “So it would appear.” When he moved into the room, the equerry shut the door behind him. “You must know that it would not be proper for me to interfere with the courts.”

  “I know, Your Highness; however, if it were known that you are watching this case with considerable interest, there might be a better chance that Sergeant Keats would receive justice.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You make it sound as if he has enemies besides the anarchists.”

  This is where it got dicey. Bertie had a reputation as a consummate womanizer and he might well have been one of Nicci’s paramours, though according to Alastair, the prince’s calling card was not one of those found in her possession.

  “There were a number of…” Oh hell. She discarded formality. “I’ll be blunt. There were a lot of bluebloods who were bedding Nicci Hallcox,” she explained, “and they don’t want their names made public. Especially since she had syphilis. Pressure is being brought to bear to ensure Keats dies quickly so that the whole thing can be swept under the rug.”

  The future King of England blinked at her extreme candor. “What of the people who actually have the explosives?”

  “We’re not sure who they are,” she replied. That really wasn’t a lie. They could look like anyone. Even you.

  The prince moved closer. “You are convinced of this man’s innocence?”

  “I am. He’s a good cop, through and through.”

  The trace of a smile. “I see you are wearing the necklace I sent you.”

  “Yes. It is very pretty.”

  “So are you.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  He looked over at his equerry and then back. “I think a note will not carry the same weight as a visit from one of my emissaries,” the prince surmised. “I shall have that person discuss the matter with both the Home Office and the PM and ask how they intend to proceed in light of this new evidence.”

  Relief washed over her. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

  “There is a quid pro quo, however,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

  “Dinner?” she asked, hoping that was all he was expecting. It was all he was going to get.

  He nodded. “It will not be onerous. In fact, it could be quite pleasant.”

  “A meal only, Your Royal Highness.”

  He blinked again and then smiled widely. “Exactly. I think it will be more exciting to talk to you about your profession rather than participate in other…pursuits. I can do that with any woman.”

  By the time she’d risen from the second curtsy, he was gone, his equerry in tow.

  “You’re on a roll,” Mr.
Spider said, landing with a plop on her shoulder. “I am impressed.”

  Don’t be. Unless Keats is alive at 8:01 in the morning, this is all theatrics.

  Chapter 5

  Tuesday, 6 November, 1888

  Near Stock

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Mr. Posh Detective,” Ramsey said, detangling a thorn bush from his suit. It was one of his better ones. By the time we get done here, it’ll be the worst.

  “I think I miss Chicago more than I realized,” Anderson replied, removing thorns of his own.

  Ramsey had to agree. Summoned out of his bed by the chief inspector, he’d been stunned to hear Flaherty had confirmed the sergeant’s alibi. Based on the two Fenians’ statements, Ramsey had been charged with finding the coffin in the woods near Stock.

  In the middle of the bloody night.

  Knowing how difficult it would be, he’d brought Anderson with him, figuring the Pinkerton fellow might as well get some exercise. After all, if he was going to be miserable, he’d make sure others were as well. Inspectors were very good at that sort of thing.

  Around them, a group of ten men from the local pub were working through the underbrush, fueled by alcohol and the promise of a sizeable breakfast come morning. The pair who found the coffin would get five quid each and their names in the Chicago Herald. That would bring any man out into the forest.

  Between scrabbling over wooden fences and tangling with the various nasty bushes, it’d been hours of frustration for all. Four of the searchers had given up and headed back to town. Ramsey couldn’t blame them. As for himself, he’d stay until daylight, when it would be too late.

  When he next looked around, Anderson was gone. Ramsey groaned.

  Just my luck; he’s going to get lost, and I’ll get the blame.

  “Where the hell are you, Anderson?”

  “Where you should be—standing by the coffin,” the man called back.

  “What? Keep calling out,” Ramsey bellowed. Anderson continued to chide him as the inspector charged through the bushes like an enraged bear. Branches slapped at his face and pulled at his clothes. He made it to the clearing at the same time as the other men. The American was kneeling next to an overturned coffin, a smug grin on his face.