by Jana Oliver
“We’ll handle the bombs in the East End,” Morrisey insisted. “You just concentrate on those in Rotherhithe.”
Keats shook his head. “Fisher will not approve of your involvement.”
“He does not have a choice.”
The sergeant’s eyebrow rose. “You are the visitor here, sir. Just because you’re Jacynda’s superior does not mean I trust you.”
Before this degenerated any further, Cynda jumped in, “He’s one of the reasons you’re alive, Keats. If he hadn’t helped me rebuild my brain, you’d be six feet under right now.”
Keats tugged on his collar without realizing it. “You vouch for him, then?”
“Without reservation.”
“I see.” He thought for a moment, then dug in his trouser pocket, sorting through a handful of coins. He selected one in particular.
“Flaherty divided up the explosives between different warehouses in Wapping and Rotherhithe,” Keats explained. “After he was done, someone else moved them, without his knowledge.” The sergeant held a coin. “I found this in one of those empty warehouses, under some gunpowder. Perhaps you can tell me what this is.”
The coin spiraled into the air, and Cynda caught it. “Looks like sixpence.”
Theo took it from her. “No. In this time period, England’s sixpence coins are silver. This is…”
“What?” Keats asked eagerly.
“Not silver,” Theo replied. He shifted the coin around with a finger. “I’ll run some tests. It may just be a crude forgery attempt.”
Alastair cut in. “I understand some of what you do, sir, but why involve yourself so deeply in our time? Why take the risk?”
“Because we all have something to lose,” Theo replied. “If history changes, it ripples forward. The world we know will be altered forever.”
Cynda watched the two Victorians come to grips with that.
“At least you’ve given us a chance,” Alastair said.
“Only one,” Theo replied. He gestured toward the second map. “If we fail, that’s our legacy.”
~••~••~••~
Behind them, a clock struck eight in Fisher’s private study. The chief inspector drummed his fingers on the desktop. In Keats’ experience, that was an indication of considerable mental turmoil. He gave Alastair a worried look.
Fisher leaned toward them. “How could Miss Lassiter possess this amount of detail unless she is involved in the plot?”
“She is not an anarchist, sir,” Keats insisted. “She just has contacts that are very free with their knowledge.”
Fisher’s brows furrowed. The finger drumming continued, increasing in tempo. “You wish me to go to the police commissioner and inform him that we have uncovered a conspiracy to incinerate most of London, and that all the evidence we have is based solely upon a woman who has recently had a mental collapse?”
“Yes,” Alastair replied without hesitation.
Fisher’s frown deepened. “Yet you say Flaherty has no part in this, which leaves your people as the prime suspects.”
“Yes, sir,” Keats admitted.
The chief inspector tapped the map that lay in front of him. “Why so many explosions?”
“With a firestorm at their backs, the displaced will have few places to head but west, toward their richer neighbors. Anarchy will be the result.”
Fisher began to tap his tented fingers together. A decision was imminent.
“I am of two minds on this, but I dare not risk the city. I shall present this to Sir Charles. I question whether he will believe me, especially if he finds you’re involved, Sergeant.”
Which is why I have no future at the Yard.
“While you are doing that, sir, I would like to go to Rotherhithe, see what I can learn there. Jacynda’s source was very vague about the placement of the explosives in that area. I will need help to find them.”
“How many constables will you require?”
“To tell you the truth, I believe Fenians would be better.”
“Fenians?” Fisher exclaimed.
“I know it sounds outrageous, but they have as much to lose as anyone. They will be blamed for this, even if the plot proves to be of a different nature.”
“It would be better if you use constables,” Fisher advised.
“On the contrary,” Keats countered, “the dockworkers will be able to move through the warehouses more quickly, as well as spot anything that looks out of place.”
“Well then, I shall trust your judgement, but keep some constables at the ready in case of trouble, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will make arrangements to handle the bombs in the East End. If Miss Lassiter and her companions wish to assist, then fine, but we are in charge of this operation.”
“Yes, sir,” Keats confirmed with a nod.
Fisher turned to the doctor. “I’d like you to come with me. Your sincerity may tilt the police commissioner into believing this incredible tale. After all, you know Miss Lassiter’s reputation better than I.”
Alastair barely hid his surprise. “As you wish, Chief Inspector.”
“Speaking of which, where is she?” Fisher asked. “Why did she not come with you?”
“Marshalling aid of her own, I believe,” Alastair replied.
The chief inspector snorted. “At least it won’t be just us in the soup if this goes wrong.”
~••~••~••~
Retrieving his belongings from Mrs. O’Neill’s boarding house had fallen out like Keats had anticipated. The Rotherhithe landlady swore at him for being a rozzer, then handed over his personal effects. He’d left her the extra tobacco in gratitude for not making the ordeal any harder than it was.
As he walked away, Keats stuck his spare pipe and the list of warehouses in a pocket and discarded the rest. He had no need for the theatrical makeup Jacynda had given him. No need to run from the law any longer.
Nevertheless, there were times when he could still feel the chains on his wrists, hear them dragging across the ground as he moved. Still feel the cap being pulled down over his face. Someone had willingly tossed him to the executioner. Someone who had much to hide. When this was over, he would begin his own hunt.
He wandered around Rotherhithe until he found an unoccupied set of stairs leading to the Thames. There, he sat and studied Jacynda’s list. Effington had owned a number of warehouses. Fifteen, to be exact.
He heard the sound of boots behind him. “Good evening, Clancy.”
The Irishman hesitated. “How’d ya know it was me?”
“You’ve been following me ever since the boarding house.”
Clancy laughed. “Yer smarter than ya look.”
“Some days.”
The large man descended the stairs and sat next to him. “Good to see yer alive. Close one, that.”
“Very.” Keats tugged on his collar again to loosen it. He could no longer stand anything tight around his neck.
“Ya owe me that reward,” Clancy said.
“You didn’t turn me in,” Keats replied, sensing no anger in the other man’s words.
“I kept ya alive while ya were free.”
“I need you to keep me that way a little longer. If you do, I’ll be happy to pay that debt.” Keats gestured. “This is a list of Effington’s warehouses in Rotherhithe. I suspect we will find the explosives in some of them.”
“Why ya think that?”
“I just do. I need your help, Clancy. Someone is planning a very unpleasant surprise for our fellow citizens come tomorrow.” He tucked away the paper and told Clancy what they’d learned, without mentioning Jacynda’s involvement or that of the shifters.
His companion whistled softly. “Sweet Jesus, it’ll be a massacre. We Irish’ll be blamed.”
“Very likely. I need your help, and that of some of the dockworkers. We have to go through all those warehouses, find the bombs, and then I’ll disarm them.”
“Why can’t the rozzers do
that?” Clancy asked, looking skeptical.
“If I bring a swarm of Blue Bottles in here, the plotters may move the bombs somewhere else. We need to have them think everything is going as planned.”
Clancy shook his head. “Not sure if the others will want to be part of this.”
“If all this burns, they’ll be no work for months. Nothing like the threat of starvation to motivate a man.”
The Irishman nodded grimly. “Ya have a point. Come on, I’ll take ya to ’em.”
Chapter 14
Friday, 9 November, 1888
Arundel Hotel
Cynda stared into the darkness for a couple of hours, unable to settle down. Too much was parading through her mind. A quick check of her watch showed it was nearly four in the morning. Over in Dorset Street, Jack the Ripper was making short work of Mary Kelly.
Shivering at the thought, Cynda rolled out of bed. She wedged herself in the bedroom door, bone tired. Theo looked up from his maps, dark half-moons under his eyes.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked in a voice that grated like sandpaper. She shook her head. “Neither can I.”
She drifted to the couch and flopped down. “What’s worrying you?”
Theo made a frustrated jab at the maps. “The precision of the explosions. That’s not feasible using Victorian technology.”
Which left only one option. “Someone from our time is helping them,” she ventured. Theo nodded wearily. “Copeland?”
“He’s my odds-on favorite right now.” He joined her on the couch. “I forwarded the coin to Fulham. I’m hoping to have a report soon.”
“Then you’re doing all you can.”
“I’m not convinced of that.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’ve been naïve.”
“How so?”
“I thought that once we sorted Keats’ timeline, everything would be fine. I thought—” Theo halted abruptly.
“Go on,” she prompted.
He looked over at her. “I thought how wonderful it would be here with you. I imagined us going to the theater together, maybe to the zoo. We would hire one of those colorful boats and float up and down the Regent’s Canal.”
Theo was a daydreamer? She never would have imagined that.
“We would sip wine as we floated along,” he suggested. He wore a lazy expression, like they were already on the water. “I see white swans gliding by us in the brilliant sunshine, the trees in full leaf, and…” His enthusiasm dimmed. “That’s not going to happen, is it?”
His unusual pessimism was jarring. “Not right now,” Cynda responded gently. “But someday.”
He leaned in closer to her. “Someday.” She held her breath, anticipating what might follow.
Just then his interface lit up, vibrating across the top of the desk.
“Fulham has the worst sense of timing,” he grumbled. He returned to his work, but not before giving her a fond smile.
Cynda returned to bed and was finally trudging down that muzzy tunnel of sleep when she heard Theo talking to her. Something about the coin and going to 2058. When she forced her eyes open, he was already gone.
~••~••~••~
In the presence of mine enemies. They were all around Keats, some thirty dockworkers, trying to keep out of the rain. Keats thought he recognized some of their faces from his time at the call-on shelter, back when he’d still been on the run. They’d all rubbed elbows together, trying to find a job when there were too few to go around. From what he could tell the majority of them were Irish, with a few Germans and Russians thrown in for good measure.
Rousting most of them out of their beds, Clancy had gathered the ones he trusted most. That still hadn’t made it easy. The argument had flowed back and forth between them ever since they’d gathered. Most of them would be happy to cut Keats’ throat and call it a day. It was only the big Irishman’s presence that held them in check.
Keats’ patience vanished. “Look lads, it’s this way—we find those explosives, or the docklands are going to burn. You know what’s in these warehouses. Tinder. One good flame, and it’s all a blast furnace.”
“Why should we help ya?” one of them called out. “Yer a bleedin’ rozzer!”
“Because you’re going to be the ones to suffer. There will be no work for months.” He let them cipher out the consequences on their own.
One of the men spat at his feet. “Don’t want nothin’ to do with this. Flaherty—”
“Didn’t set the bombs,” Keats retorted. “He knows better than to hurt his own.”
That registered. There was more mumbling.
Clancy chimed in, “Gents, this rozzer’s on the level. We all know there’s others out there that’ll do us harm. It’s plain and simple. We need yer help.”
More murmuring. “Ya pay us for our time?”
“Yes,” Keats replied. “More than going wages.” He’d sort that out with Fisher later.
“How da we get inside?” someone else called out. “They’re all locked. Ya could nick us for breakin’ in.”
“If we can’t find someone with a key, I’ll bust them open,” Keats assured them. “I’m a copper. I can do that sort of thing.” He sent a silent thank you to the chief inspector for insisting that he stay with the Yard.
An old man came forward. He had only one eye, the other hidden behind a dingy patch. “Yer not lyin’, are ya?”
Keats shook his head. “I wish to God I was.”
The old man crossed himself. “I were afraid of that, lad.”
As rain poured off his bowler, Keats waved the wary watchman forward and presented his card.
“I’m Detective-Sergeant Keats with Scotland Yard, Special Branch. I need you to open all of Hugo Effington’s warehouses. You do have the keys, don’t you?”
“You were in prison.”
“I was. Now I’m here. Do you have the keys?”
“I do, but I can’t—”
“My responsibility. There are explosives in those buildings. You wouldn’t want all of the docklands to become a fireball, would you?” Keats added, just to up the ante.
“Explosives?” The watchman’s eyes skimmed over the group standing behind Keats. “What about this lot?”
“They’re here to do their civic duty. Are you prepared to do yours?”
The man caved. “As you like, sir. I don’t need no trouble.”
With the swift application of a set of keys, the doors to the first warehouse opened.
“All right gents, listen up. We are looking for half-barrels with dynamite attached to the side of them. Call out if you find one. Just to be clear, if you think this a chance to nick a few goods for yourself, I’d not recommend it.”
“There’s only one of ya. Toss us in jail, will ya?” someone chided.
“No, I’ll not waste my time. I’ll strap you to one of those barrels and light the dynamite myself.”
“Ya can’t do that!” the man protested.
“And I’ll help him,” another voice called out as its owner bulldozed his way through the crowd.
Keats looked up at Inspector Ramsey’s broad face. “Good morning, sir.”
“Detective-Sergeant. Carry on.”
“Ten of you come with me,” Keats called out. “The others go with Clancy and the watchman. Start working through the other warehouses.” No one moved. “Hop to it lads, so you’ll all have a job come evening.”
~••~••~••~
“Ah, excellent,” Fulham announced after Theo staggered out of the time pod. Then he took a good look at his boss. “Sir? Are you all right?”
“Not really,” Theo replied, leaning heavily against the chronsole, his mind drenched in thick fog. His respect for the Rovers rose even further.
Ralph Hamilton quirked an eyebrow as he shoved a candy bar across the counter. Theo shook his head.
“They’re your brains,” the chron-op replied.
“I doubt I have that many left, anyway.” He gave his assistant a sidelong look
. “What keeps TPB from knowing I’m here?”
“As far as they’re concerned, you’re Mr. Hopkins. At least, that’s what your interface is telling them.”
“Well done.”
Theo took a couple of steps, managed to find his balance, and then followed his assistant out of the chronsole room.
“Any sign of Harter?” Fulham shook head. “How about Alegria? How’s she holding up?”
“Your sister is doing just fine. Anytime TPB pulls another legal stunt, she just bats it back in their court.”
“Never play poker with her, Fulham. She’ll clean you out every time.”
“Thank you for the warning, sir. Might I suggest you visit Guv’s physician? You look awful.”
Theo rubbed his temples, trying to ease the constant headache. “It’s just lag. It’ll resolve.”
His assistant fixed him with a frown. “Oddly enough, I have heard that same comment from Miss Lassiter. You do remember what happened to her?”
Yes, I do.
Three serious Guv agents, all in their wormhole-black suits took over escort duties. He was herded to a small meeting room. Sitting in one of the ergo chairs, hands folded over her ample chest, was M.A. Fletcher, formerly a member of the Time Protocol Board. Her fiery red hair was highlighted by the glow of the recessed lights.
An acknowledged genius at miniaturization, it was joked that if you gave Fletcher a two hundred-story skyscraper, in an hour you’d have something that would fit in your pocket. In reality, her talents lay in nano technology, but it made a good story nonetheless.
Fletcher greeted him with a nod, which he returned. “Been awhile, Morrisey. You look like death warmed over.”
“Been traveling.” Gingerly, he settled into a chair. For some reason all his bones ached.
“So Klein said. What’s it like?”
“Tiring, exhilarating. Frightening.”
Fletcher gave a knowing nod. “Frankly, I’m surprised they got you out from behind your computer.”
“Blame it on the Restricted Force Warrant. I stay here I’m in jail, so I figured it was time to experience the monster I created.”
