Madman's Dance (Time Rovers)

by Jana Oliver

  “Who?” Ramsey demanded.

  “Our betters,” Hulme replied caustically.

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you. That’d only make it worse.”

  “Were their names on those cards?”

  A nod. “They said they knew everything about me. Everything. So I didn’t do my job, figuring it’d never get to trial. I thought someone would pull strings and get the sergeant off. I never thought—”

  “That they’d hang him? Where were you this morning when they were putting the noose around his neck? Tucked in your bed, all safe and sound as a—”

  “Goddammit, you don’t understand!” Hulme roared, surging to his feet. “They’ll destroy my career!”

  “They don’t have to.” Ramsey snorted. “You did it yourself.”

  He saw the truth hit home. Hulme sank down into the chair. Woodenly, he pulled open a drawer in the desk. A black notebook dropped just in front of the revolver.

  “It’s Keats’,” Hulme said in a thick voice. “I found it in the alley in Whitechapel.”

  “When?”

  “The day after Fisher received the sergeant’s alibi. Tell Keats I’m sorry.”

  Ramsey collected the item and rifled through it. Inside was the pawn ticket for the sergeant’s boots, the one that had gone “missing.”

  “You intentionally hid evidence that might have cleared a fellow officer,” Ramsey seethed. “How can you live with yourself?”

  Hulme drifted toward the small window, pushing back the heavy curtain, his braces hanging free. “I can’t. Not anymore. They’ll keep pushing me, using me. I’m done for.”

  Ramsey’s eyes lowered to the gun. Perhaps it wasn’t just for protection.

  Sensing a fleeting opportunity, he dropped the notebook into a pocket and then quietly lifted the revolver. Slipping the thumb catch back, he broke open the gun and deftly dropped the cartridges into his hand. He barely got it back in place on the desk when Hulme turned toward him.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked. “I’ve told you my tale.”

  “I’m still here because we coppers have to stick together. Come forward, Hulme. Give us names. We’ll kick those toffs in the nads, teach them some manners.”

  Hulme shook his head.

  “For God’s sake, don’t let them win.”

  Hulme scoffed. “They always win. You know that. Now get the hell out of here!”

  Ramsey did as the man asked, dropping the cartridges into his pocket the moment he was out the door. Unless the inspector had more tucked somewhere in his rooms, the future might not be as bleak as Hulme imagined.

  ~••~••~••~

  Inquests were boring, at least from Satyr’s point of view. You listened to dull testimony about how the deceased had shuffled off this mortal coil, and then the jurors affixed blame…or not. In this case, none of them had any idea who had slipped that knife into Hugo Effington’s heart.

  Tempting as it was to proclaim to the packed room, I did it and I’m extremely happy that cruel tyrant is dead, Satyr held himself in check. En mirage as a humble clerk, he stood at the rear of the room, an excellent vantage point from which to observe the proceedings. His disguise was perfect. Clerks were ubiquitous: no one paid them any attention.

  At the very front, in the first row, was the veiled widow, recently returned from New York. Inky black was not Deidre’s best color. He wasn’t surprised that there were no sobs from behind that dense shroud. She was well rid of the man, and only the rules of etiquette kept her from dancing a jig.

  Pity I shall never share your bed again. Too many questions might be asked, though he’d certainly enjoyed his time en mirage as her lover. The real Reginald Fine was in India, with no notion that someone was having a great deal of fun at his expense.

  At least he won’t be charged for a murder he didn’t commit.

  According to the newspapers, the police were stymied. No jealous lover to blame and the widow was on a ship to America when her husband died.

  Dr. Montrose testified next. His firm voice and commanding presence was impressive for someone so new to his job. Satyr listened with interest as the doctor spoke of that night: the horrific discovery of Effington’s still-warm body, the mysterious disappearance of Miss Jacynda Lassiter, and the hellacious warehouse fire.

  Satyr smiled to himself. The fire had been hellacious. He’d always had a certain talent with combustibles.

  “At that time, did you have any notion of where Miss Lassiter had gone?” the coroner inquired.

  “No, I did not,” Montrose replied.

  “And yet, I understand she reappeared a few days later.”

  Satyr straightened up, on the alert. Twig was alive? Now that was news he’d not heard.

  “Yes,” Montrose replied. “In the meantime, she had suffered a mental collapse, no doubt from the horrific nature of the event. She remembered no details of that evening.”

  If she’s still among the living, would she be here? His eyes scrutinized the females in the audience. Too old, too dowdy, too heavy…

  A woman sitting three rows behind Deidre caught his notice. She was clad in a steel-gray dress and fully veiled. Could it be? He would have dismissed her outright as some aggrieved relative, except she had a particular way of holding herself not usually seen in women of this century. A gifted assassin could always suss out his prey.

  His smile widened. Tobin had made a very grave error. He should have left her in the asylum.

  Fool.

  The coroner began to question a member of the Fire Brigade. Now truly bored, Satyr left the inquest. Twig would be out soon. He couldn’t wait for a personal chat with one of Bedlam’s former inmates. Somehow, she’d put her mind back together. He wanted to know how she’d achieved that miracle. Then he’d let her know the game was not over yet.

  Death by person or persons unknown. Alastair hadn’t expected anything else for the verdict. Still, he would need to send Reuben a letter in Dublin, reporting the outcome. He waited until the majority of the room had cleared and then exited the building, holding the door open for a lady clad in dark gray.

  “Thank you, Dr. Montrose,” she replied.

  “My pleasure, madam,” he said.

  “Want to share a cab?” the figure asked.

  He started at the blatant invitation. The woman carefully raised a portion of her veil. A wink came in his direction.

  Jacynda. “I should have known.” The veil dropped. “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  He offered his arm and she took it. “The Arundel Hotel. The sooner I’m out from under this damned veil, the better. It’s driving me nuts.”

  “Very effective, though.”

  “I thought so.”

  “I will join you and then take the cab on to Lord Wescomb’s. I wish to ensure he is resting. He was at the prison this morning and it was very hard on him.”

  As he waved down a hansom, a prickling sensation began, then increased. He hunted for the source.

  Jacynda turned toward him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone en mirage,” he whispered. “Very near.”

  Casually, she surveyed the scene. “Near the lamp post. The one who looks like a clerk.”

  “How do you know he’s—?”

  “Later,” she whispered back.

  “He was at the inquest, in the back of the room,” Alastair observed. “I thought I felt something, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “I knew I should have sat further back,” she said.

  “I would not advise a confrontation on a city street.”

  He heard her sigh. “All right, I’ll behave myself.”

  He helped her aboard the cab. She supplied the address and the jarvey urged the horse forward. Once they were rolling through the streets, she lifted the veil.

  “That’s better,” she said, scratching her nose.

  Alastair took hold of her free hand and squeezed it affectionately.

  “It is so good to see you again
. I did not have the opportunity to tell you last night.”

  “How’s Keats?”

  “Bitter. The stay of execution came at the very last moment. At least they hadn’t put the rope on his neck yet.” He felt his companion wince. “I’m sorry, that was crude of me.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to have been there.”

  “He was quite brave.” Better than I would have been.

  “I was outside the prison, waiting to see if they raised the flag. Morrisey kept telling me to have hope, but—”

  “Morrisey?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Theo Morrisey, my boss. He showed up this morning. He has this silly notion of keeping me safe.”

  Alastair couldn’t keep the frown away. “Is he someone you can trust?”

  “What? Oh, yes. He’s fine.”

  “I see,” Alastair murmured. He leaned closer. “You said you could tell that fellow on the street was not as he appeared,” he said, keeping the conversation cryptic, though he doubted the hansom driver could hear them. “How?”

  “It’s been that way ever since this,” she replied, tapping her temple.

  Alastair blinked in surprise. “I’d keep that secret. Perceivers are not well regarded, and you’re not even one of us.”

  She gave him a strange look, but held her silence. That wasn’t like Jacynda. She still tended toward profanity, but something was different about her. Why did that surprise him? She had undergone such a profound mental disruption. Certainly she would be altered, wouldn’t she?

  “What did they do to you, exactly?” he asked.

  “They used a device that disrupted my memories, sort of…erased my brain,” she said.

  “How long did it take for you to heal?” he asked.

  “Nearly four months.”

  “That long?” he exclaimed, astonished. “I had thought that with your advanced medicine, it would have gone more quickly.”

  “I started with almost nothing, only my name. It just took time.” She let out a small chuckle. “Plus a medication error.”

  When she didn’t offer any further information, he decided not to press further. The uncertainty in her voice told him she wasn’t completely healed, no matter how she tried to cover it.

  He would have placed a kiss on her cheek when he bid her farewell at the hotel, but the veil was in the way again. A squeeze of her shoulder sufficed. As he climbed back into the hansom, calling out his address, he felt that odd sensation.

  Their watcher had followed them.

  ~••~••~••~

  The Lord Chief Justice’s chambers were more crowded than was comfortable. Extra chairs had been brought in, but still it was chock-a-block.

  Fisher chose a seat away from the fire, knowing the room would get toasty soon enough. Ramsey sat next to him, the heavy bags under his eyes bearing witness to his lost sleep. Next to the inspector sat Kingsbury, appearing equally worn.

  Fisher willed himself to relax. It failed. His nerves had been in a tangle since the moment a reporter had barreled out of the prison shouting the news.

  A stay of execution. He had almost wept on the spot.

  Ramsey lightly touched his sleeve. “It’s truly a second chance, sir,” the inspector murmured. “We can set this right.”

  “That is my prayer.”

  On the other side of the room, Justice Hawkins was settling in, as was Arnett and two men he did not know.

  “Who are they?” he asked Kingsbury.

  “The one on the right is from Home Office, the other no less than an emissary from His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

  “There does not seem to be goodwill between them,” Fisher observed.

  “No, there isn’t,” Kingsbury replied. “Home Office is taking a hiding in the papers. I gather the Queen is quite distressed by this whole disaster. Home Office has tried to shift the blame to Warren, but it’s not working as well as they’d hoped.” Kingsbury looked up. “Ah, here he is.”

  They all rose in respect as Baron Coleridge, the Lord Chief Justice, entered his chambers.

  “Do be seated,” he said, looking around the room as he sat behind his desk. He glanced down at a list of names his clerk had given him upon his entry.

  “Which of you is the representative from Home Office?”

  A thin man with a bristly moustache rose and gave a slight bow. “I am, your lordship.”

  “I note His Royal Highness has an emissary here, as well. That is most unusual.”

  Another man rose. “It is His Royal Highness’ opinion that this is a most unusual case, your lordship.”

  “So it appears.” Coleridge studied the list for a bit longer. “Chief Inspector Fisher and Inspector Ramsey?”

  “Just here, your lordship,” Fisher replied.

  “Mr. Kingsbury?”

  The junior barrister stood. “Chief Justice. Lord Wescomb asked me to send his regrets. The events at Newgate this morning have compromised his recovery and he has returned to his bed.”

  “I’m truly sorry to hear that,” the man replied, setting the list aside. “I see the Crown Prosecutor is here, as well. Excellent. We shall proceed.”

  There was a tap at the door and a clerk hurried in. He bent close to Fisher and handed him an envelope. The chief inspector ripped it open.

  Is there no bottom to this dark pit?

  He handed it to his subordinate.

  As Ramsey read the contents, his hands began a fine tremor. “My God…” he whispered.

  Before Fisher could reply, Coleridge began. “Mr. Kingsbury, state your position as clearly and succinctly as possible.”

  The junior barrister rose. “Thank you, Chief Justice. We have secured a stay of execution based on compelling new evidence that proves Sergeant Keats is innocent of the murder of Nicola Hallcox.”

  “What is the nature of this evidence?”

  “Two Fenians have come forward, my lord, and have sworn that they were present with Sergeant Keats in Whitechapel during the time that Miss Hallcox met her end. Mr. Paddy O’Donnell is willing to testify that he struck the sergeant, placed him inside a coffin, and transported him out of the city. The other witness, Mr. Desmond Flaherty, has signed a statement indicating his presence with the sergeant that very evening.”

  The Lord Chief Justice leaned forward in his chair. “Fenians? Consider me stunned, sir.”

  “As was I, your lordship,” Kingsbury said. “It was most unexpected.”

  Justice Hawkins sighed. “I should be surprised at nothing when it comes to this case.”

  “In addition, my Lord Chief Justice, we have a witness who has testified that she saw the sergeant in Whitechapel at forty past ten that evening. She stated he was walking on the very street that would lead to his confrontation with the Fenians.”

  “Why did this witness not come forward earlier?” Coleridge asked, frowning.

  “She was concerned about her safety, my lord. She is Irish, you see, and did not wish to incur the wrath of the anarchists.” Kingsbury shuffled the papers in his hand. “As for physical evidence, Inspector Ramsey has located the coffin. There are marks on the lid that match perfectly the sole of one of the sergeant’s boots. In addition, Inspector Ramsey has obtained the sergeant’s notebook, which was found in the alley where Keats said he was set upon by the Fenians.”

  “Who found the notebook in the first place?” Coleridge asked.

  Kingsbury looked toward Ramsey, who rose.

  “Inspector Hulme passed it onto me, my lord,” Ramsey said.

  “When?”

  “Just this morning.”

  Coleridge sported a frown. “How long has it been in his possession?”

  “Since the twenty-sixth of October.”

  “Good heavens. Why did he not enter it into evidence at the trial?” Coleridge’s frown deepened. “We must have this man explain why he did not do his duty.”

  Fisher rose. “That will not be possible, my lord.” He indicat
ed the message he’d received. “I have been informed that Inspector Hulme was found dead of a gunshot wound about an hour ago, in his rooms. It is surmised that he took his own life.”

  Coleridge sank back in his chair. “This has to be the most remarkable case I have seen in all my years in Her Majesty’s service.” He eyed Arnett. “What has the Crown to say of this new evidence?”

  “I am taken aback at the news of the inspector’s death, my lord. I was not aware that he held the prisoner’s notebook in his possession, and can give no possible reason why he would have done so.” He turned toward Fisher. “As to the Fenians and this new witness, what manner of compensation have these people been promised for their testimony?”

  “None,” the chief inspector replied.

  Arnett huffed. “I find that unlikely given Flaherty’s animosity for the constabulary.”

  Before Fisher could reply, Kingsbury interjected, “Well, there was one offer, if you may call it that.”

  Arnett pounced. “What was it?”

  “Lord Wescomb has offered to represent Mr. O’Donnell when he comes to trial,” Kingsbury replied innocently.

  Arnett scowled.

  “With no disrespect meant to his lordship, that is hardly an incentive to offer testimony in this case,” Coleridge replied.

  The Chief Justice swiveled toward the Home Office representative. “I must put a question for you, sir. Where I understand the need not to ruin the reputations of the men who unwisely availed themselves of the victim’s services, I do not comprehend the other interdiction. Why did you enjoin both the defence and prosecution from speaking of the stolen explosives?”

  The Home Office mouthpiece spoke up. “It was to prevent panic, my lord. The citizenry would be overly frightened. They are not equipped to handle such disturbing news.”

  To Fisher’s astonishment, Ramsey rose again. “I disagree. The public is a lot smarter than you give them credit for. Besides, it’s already common knowledge in the East End.”

  “You misunderstand me, Inspector,” the Home Office representative replied smoothly. “Our concern was for the people who matter.”