by Jana Oliver
“Will it be fun?” she asked, unsure.
“I’ll make sure it is.”
“No beeping. I don’t like that.”
“I’ll see to it,” he confirmed with a grin.
Cynda rose and walked out onto the sand. Dropping onto her knees, she began to trace in it with an index finger.
He knelt beside her. “Do you like drawing in the sand?”
She nodded. “It doesn’t move. Maybe I can fix it.”
“The sand doesn’t move,” he murmured to himself, as if that were a revelation. “And it should, at least for you.”
“Why?”
“The sand seems to move for you because you’re a time sensitive, you feel it passing more acutely than the rest of us. Or at least you did.”
“Why?”
Morrisey looked chagrined. “It’s very hard to explain, especially with the way you are right now.”
He fetched the wooden stick. It was part of a pair he’d given her to eat the strange food that he said would help heal her brain.
“Maybe this will work better.”
Holding it in her hand, she began to draw. Nothing special at first, just lines. If something wasn’t right, she smoothed it over with the palm of her hand. Then she jammed the stick into the sand and began to scoop the white particles into big mounds. She could make anything she wanted and if it wasn’t right, she could do it again.
When she looked up, Morrisey was gone. Sitting on the platform was a teapot and a cup. She would stay and drink the tea until the sun went away. Maybe the dragons would crawl down from their perches and write notes to each other in the glowing letters on the box that beeped.
~••~••~••~
Ralph Hamilton glared at him from behind those round glasses of his. Morrisey prepared himself for the barrage: Fulham had already warned him that Miss Lassiter’s closest friend was not dealing well with her diagnosis.
“She refuses to talk to me. Is that your doing?” Hamilton demanded.
“No. It’s her decision.”
The man slumped a bit, as if he’d expected another answer. “She will be okay, won’t she? Like she used to be?”
“She’ll never be the same woman we knew.”
“She has to be,” Hamilton protested.
Morrisey gave him a sharp look. “Don’t assume that different is worse.”
“She was different enough to start with,” the man shot back.
“Yes, and now she’ll be different in a new way. Perhaps it will be to her advantage.”
“I hear you’re ignoring TPB’s psychiatrist and won’t let her take the ARD meds.”
“He is just following standard procedure, and we both know that Miss Lassiter is anything but off-the-rack. He is discounting the strongest element in our favor.”
“Which is?” his employee asked skeptically.
“Her inner fortitude. She’s not going to give in. That’s not her style.”
“What if she doesn’t find her way back from whatever happy place her brain went? What then?”
“I will ensure that she is in a safe environment, free of financial concerns for the remainder of her days.”
Hamilton shook his head. “Spending the rest of her life building sand castles?” he murmured. “That’s just not Cynda.”
Morrisey couldn’t help but smile. “Which is why, Mr. Hamilton, I still have hope.”
Chapter 19
Wednesday, 31 October, 1888
Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)
The chief inspector was next in the witness box. Keats bit the inside of his lip, drawing blood. This was going to be brutal.
“Chief Inspector Fisher, you are with Special Branch, is that not correct?” Arnett opened.
“Yes, I am.”
“And the prisoner is your subordinate?”
“Yes, Detective-Sergeant Keats has been with the Yard since January of last year.”
“How has he performed in his duties?”
“With excellence. He is one of my top men.”
Which wasn’t what you said a few days ago.
“In the early morning of the fourteenth of October you received a summons from Inspector Hulme. What did you do when you arrived at the Hallcox residence?”
“I spoke with Hulme, and at that point I assumed command of the investigation,” Fisher replied evenly.
“Is that usual procedure?”
“Not always.”
“What led you to that decision?”
“The sensitivity of the situation. If indeed Sergeant Keats were responsible for Miss Hallcox’s death, then it was paramount that the investigation be conducted as impartially as possible.”
“Why do you think you would be more impartial than Hulme?”
An excellent question. Keats leaned forward, curious to hear the response.
“At the time I felt it was the wisest move,” Fisher replied.
“And yet, Chief Inspector, you promptly altered department policy and summoned Dr. Reuben Bishop to the scene. Why?”
“Dr. Bishop has an excellent reputation, and I felt I wanted all avenues pursued in this case.”
“You have had difficulties with the Home Office coroners in the past?”
“No. I just felt Dr. Bishop would be a better choice.”
“Why?”
“He does not confine himself solely to examining the body. He takes into account the scene of the crime and other minutiae that are often overlooked.”
“Did you not summon Dr. Bishop in the matter of a death on the Friday evening before the Hallcox murder?”
“Yes.”
“So you were aware that Dr. Montrose had taken up work with Dr. Bishop?”
“I was not aware that Montrose was working with Bishop on a regular basis.”
“But you were aware that Dr. Montrose and the prisoner were friends?”
“Yes,” Fisher conceded.
“How did Dr. Montrose react when he learned his best friend was the prime suspect?”
“With deep shock.”
“Was he so shocked that he might have been tempted to alter the evidence in favor of the prisoner?”
Wescomb stood. “I must object, your lordship. The witness could not possibly have known Dr. Montrose’s intentions at that time.”
“I agree with the defence’s objection,” Justice Hawkins said.
“As your lord pleases,” Arnett said smoothly.
“Chief Inspector,” Justice Hawkins inquired, “is it not possible that Dr. Montrose might have overheard the prisoner’s name mentioned by one of the constables, or a bystander perhaps?”
“I do not believe so, your lordship. I was very particular as to who knew the truth of the matter.”
Hawkins nodded. “What was Montrose’s reaction upon learning the news?”
“As would be expected, the doctor was devastated, to say the very least. I sincerely believe that neither Montrose nor Dr. Bishop were aware my sergeant was the suspect until after the post-mortem had been completed.”
Hawkins nodded again. “You may proceed, Mr. Arnett.”
The prosecutor began anew. “In the past, has the prisoner shown a propensity toward women of ill repute?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Fisher replied evenly.
“No need to warn him about such behavior?”
“No. By all accounts, he is a sober and well-mannered gentleman.”
“Who gives money to prostitutes out of the kindness of his heart?”
“Yes. It is a Christian act, after all.”
“I have no other questions.”
Wescomb rose. “Chief Inspector Fisher, why did you assign Inspector Ramsey to investigate the sergeant’s alibi?”
“I felt the reputation of Scotland Yard was at stake, and I wanted no stone left unturned.”
“And it was Ramsey who found the sergeant’s boots, proving he was in Ingatestone?”
“Yes.”
“Could it be said that the inspect
or is partial to Sergeant Keats in any manner, perhaps inclined to alter evidence in his favor?”
Fisher shook his head. “No, just the opposite, in fact. The inspector is not fond of the sergeant, and the feeling is quite mutual. That’s why I assigned him the task.”
Good old Ram. As thickheaded as any you might find.
“At the beginning of this month, Sergeant Keats attempted to arrest Desmond Flaherty and a number of other anarchists. Was he wounded in that action?”
“Yes, quite seriously.”
“Did he receive a commendation?”
“Yes, one for bravery.”
“That will be all, Chief Inspector.”
Fisher looked up at Keats and then returned to his seat.
That went better than I hoped.
There was a brief pause and then Dr. Reuben Bishop took his place in the witness box. Keats leaned forward, keen to hear Bishop’s testimony. After a brief explanation of the doctor’s credentials, Arnett went to work.
“During the post-mortem, did you note any appearance of violation?” he asked.
“None.”
“Was there evidence of sexual congress?”
“Yes.”
“The cause of death?”
“Death was caused by asphyxiation secondary to strangulation.”
“What was the murder weapon?”
“The sash from her dressing gown being the weapon. The victim was killed a few feet away from the bed. The murderer stood behind her and tightened the sash until life was extinct.”
“How did you determine that location?”
“There was urine in the carpet, which is consistent with the bladder sphincter relaxing upon death.”
“At approximately what time do you believe she was killed?”
“Somewhere between the hours of nine and quarter past midnight, given the remains of the meal in her stomach and the lack of rigor mortis.”
“Were there any other medical findings, Doctor?”
Bishop’s moustache twitched. “Miss Hallcox suffered from syphilitic infection.”
Arnett nodded. “Was there any external evidence of this infection?”
“No. It was beyond that stage.”
“So one of her admirers would not know that he was being exposed to the disease?”
“No.”
“I would suspect that it would come as a considerable shock to learn the truth.”
“Yes,” Reuben replied cautiously, “though he would not have learned of it for at least ten days at the earliest, usually three weeks.”
“How long would you say that Miss Hallcox had had this disease?”
“It was in the latter stages. We found evidence that the disease had progressed to her brain.”
“Then her prognosis was grave?”
“Very likely.”
“And anyone who was with her?”
“It would depend on whether or not they contracted the disease.”
Keats gut tightened. Where was this going?
“That night, were you aware that your assistant, Dr. Montrose, is a close friend of the prisoner?”
“I was aware that he knew Sergeant Keats. That, however, was not germane to my investigation. I am solely interested in physical evidence.”
“How admirable. Who summoned you to this investigation?”
“Chief Inspector Fisher.”
“Why not the Home Office coroner?”
“I do not know. I was summoned, and I performed my duties as required by law.”
“Were either you or Dr. Montrose left alone with the evidence at any time during the investigation?”
Reuben’s eyes narrowed. “No. We conducted the post-mortem together. We delivered the findings to Scotland Yard together.”
“No further questions.”
Wescomb rose. “Dr. Bishop, how long have you been a forensic pathologist?”
“Just about seven years.”
“How many cases have you handled?”
“I believe it stands at somewhere near sixty.”
“Have you ever compromised evidence either in favor of the prosecution or the defence?”
“Certainly not!”
“I didn’t think so. When did you learn that Sergeant Keats was a suspect in the Hallcox murder?”
“The following morning, when we delivered the post-mortem findings to Scotland Yard.”
“As to those hairs you found in Miss Hallcox’s bed, did you compare them to a sample taken from Sergeant Keats?”
“Yes. A sample was obtained from the hairbrush in his rooms.”
“Did any of them match as to color?”
“No, none of them matched any of the four types found in the sheets.”
“Four? I thought there were only three.”
“The fourth sample belonged to Miss Hallcox.”
“I see. What of any of the household staff?”
“The hairs match none of Miss Hallcox’s domestic staff.”
“That will be all, Doctor.”
~••~••~••~
“It’s your choice, guv,” the man offered.
As Clancy Moran saw it, it wasn’t really a choice, not with a knife pointing at his belly.
“What’s the old fox want with me?” he asked, trying to buy time.
“To talk,” was the quick reply. There were four men around him, counting the one with the blade. He could start a brawl, but they’d end it.
“Flaherty never wants to talk to nobody. He just cuts ’em up. Like Johnny Ahearn.”
The knife wielder’s eyes narrowed. “Well then, looks like you’re the next up, don’t it?”
Clancy tried to keep his muscles loose as he descended into the cellar beneath a chandlery. There’d be too many of Flaherty’s men around to escape, but at least he’d have the chance to snap the bastard’s neck before they stopped him. He chuckled at the thought, which earned him a baffled look from his escort. It was probably righteous he’d not received the sergeant’s award money. It didn’t look like it would have done him much good anyway.
“Knife,” the man demanded, putting out his hand. Clancy dug it out and dropped it into the outstretched palm. “Now the one in your boot.” Grudgingly, he obeyed.
The door creaked open at the bottom of the stairs and he was pushed through. As his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, his hope surged. There was only one man inside the room—the man he’d vowed to kill.
“Evenin’, Moran.” Flaherty gestured toward a barrel. “Rest yer feet. We need to talk.”
“I don’t talk to butchers.”
The blade appeared in Flaherty’s hand as if by magic. “And I don’t talk to fools. So what’s it gonna be?”
Clancy squared himself, ready for a fight. “Why’d ya do it? Johnny always watched yer back. Ya had no right to cut him like that.”
“I didn’t.”
“Yer lyin’. I heard—”
“Ya heard wrong,” Flaherty insisted.
“Why should I believe ya?”
“Because Johnny was workin’ for me. He was tryin’ to find my daughter.”
Clancy rocked back. “So the rozzer had it right.”
“The little sergeant?”
“Yeah.”
“One of my men saw ya at the Spread Eagle. He said the two of ya were arguin’ over somethin’.”
“I was tryin’ to stop him from goin’ to Whitechapel. Figured he’d get nicked.”
“He didn’t do it, ya know,” Flaherty admitted. “He was in that alley with me.”
“Then why’s the wind blowin’ toward the gallows?”
Flaherty’s voice turned bitter. “Why not? They’ll hang anyone they please if it serves them.”
“Still, he’s a rozzer. A fair one, and there ain’t too many of those.”
“Best we don’t argue that one.”
“So why am I here?”
“It’s plain we don’t like each other much. Too many cocks in the barnyard, right?” Flaherty gave
a low chuckle. “We got different ideas of how to free Ireland from her shackles. But right now, none of that matters. I have to find Fiona, and I need yer help.”
Clancy knew what it took for this man to admit that. They’d been rivals since the moment they’d met, each trying to rally men to the cause in their own way. And now…
He sat on the barrel, letting the tension ebb. “When did she go missin’?”
“Right after I stole those explosives,” Flaherty replied, his knife vanishing into a coat pocket. “She was workin’ for Effington.” He spat on the floor. “Somehow she was found out.”
Clancy spat as well. “He’s rottin’ in hell. I saw what he did to that watchman.”
“It wasn’t him that took Fee, though. It was one of the others.”
The skin on the back of Clancy’s neck prickled. “Ya mean…”
A single nod. “I know ya cared for Johnny. So did I, and I want the man who killed him. I figure if we find him, we’ll find Fee.”
“What about the explosives?” Clancy hedged.
“None of yer worry.”
“And the rozzer?”
“What about him? We can’t do nothin’ for him now.”
“Maybe not.” Clancy rose from the barrel. “I’ll do what I can for ya, but after we find yer daughter, I’ll not work with ya again.”
“Didn’t figure ya would.”
~••~••~••~
2057 A.D.
TEM Enterprises
As he’d promised, Morrisey made her a game. When she touched the hovering picture above the black box, a question would appear.
Is it a kitten, a shoe, or a horse?
Cynda smiled. This one was easy.
“Kitten,” she said. A chime rang. She’d gotten that one right.
Another picture. “Horse.” Chime. Another picture. She had no idea. A sad sound came from the machine. That happened two more times and then she stomped off in a huff to play with the fish. When she grew bored, she came back and started over. She got two more of the images right this time.
To her delight, music came out of the box and a tiny dragon sailed across the screen, belching fire as it flew up and perched on top of a golden pagoda. It winked at her, curled up, and took a nap. She started all over again. Each time she got the proper number of words right, the dragon grew a bit bigger.