Madman's Dance (Time Rovers)

by Jana Oliver

  Satyr had seen this one coming. “Tobin is not a Virtual. Tradition requires that he be one to replace me.”

  “If I say that Tobin will become Lead Assassin, then he will.”

  So that’s the way you’re playing it. He debated whether he should tell his superior about Miss Lassiter, then thought better of it. The Ascendant would just dispatch Tobin again and perhaps the fellow might get lucky the second time around.

  If anyone is to kill her, it will be me.

  “You should be aware that the Twenty’s patience grows thin. You have not treated them as tradition requires, and that makes them inclined to rethink your status.”

  To his astonishment, the Ascendant shrugged. “I am not worried about them or any others of this world, Mr. S.”

  “You owe them an explanation, sir,” Satyr pushed.

  “I owe them nothing! I have my marching orders, and they do not come from the Twenty.”

  Who is dictating his decisions? There was no one higher than the Ascendant.

  Satyr leaned closer. The man’s eyes were glassy. The pupils didn’t seem the right shape. Opium? He had none of the telltale signs of abuse. Besides, he was a religious man who didn’t take strong drink, except the wine during Communion.

  “Who has issued those marching orders?” Satyr quizzed.

  “No one you would know,” was the smug reply.

  Satyr pushed back from his breakfast, sincerely disappointed at leaving the fine food behind. “I shall be seeing to my work,” he said, gathering his outer garments.

  “I expect a full report tomorrow morning.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Lest you do not understand, Mr. S., this is your last chance.”

  Satyr gave his chief a knowing nod.

  So you think.

  Chapter 9

  When Inspector Ramsey appeared at his cell door, Keats groaned. He’d been dreading this moment.

  “Sir,” he said, not bothering to stand. It no longer mattered if the man hated him or not. His career was gone.

  “How are you doing?” The inspector’s concern sounded genuine. There was no hint of the arrogance that had fanned Keats’ dislike of the man since the day they’d first met.

  “It’s been rocky, sir. One minute I hold great hope, and then the next I know I am a dead man.”

  Ramsey drew out the bench with a noisy scrape and lowered himself onto it. “Got to be hell,” he said, shaking his head.

  What is this? He’d expected the Ram to lord it over him.

  Perhaps it was time to repay the man. “You did…a remarkable job, sir.”

  Ramsey’s eyes caught his. “I shouldn’t have had to. That was Hulme’s job.”

  Keats’ temper flared at the name. “Damn the man’s incompetence. If I am found innocent, I’ll tell him that personally.”

  “Don’t bother. He died this morning, one shot in the temple. It looks like suicide.”

  “Good Lord!” Keats exclaimed. “What would drive a man to that?”

  “He admitted he was being ridden hard by some of the higher-ups to make sure your alibi didn’t stick. He said they were holding something over him.”

  Keats’ mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Then there was a grand conspiracy to see me hang.”

  Ramsey ran his thick fingers through his hair, then let his shoulders drop. “I may have pushed him to it, I don’t know. He was on the edge, that was clear. He was brooding over a revolver and a bottle of scotch. It’s when he gave me your notebook.”

  “He had it all along?” Keats said, scratching his chin in thought.

  “Yes. Found it in the alley.”

  “My God,” Keats murmured.

  “I took the bullets out of his gun when he wasn’t looking,” Ramsey replied.

  “That was decent of you,” Keats said, surprised. “But maybe he had more.”

  “I don’t know,” Ramsey said. “I was hard on him. Maybe too hard.”

  “He knew what he was doing was wrong.” Keats swore under his breath. “They’ve tampered with the investigating officer, lost or withheld evidence, tried to murder my barrister. They’ll do something this time around. I’ll still hang.”

  “Maybe not. The Prince of Wales is involved now. The Royals know a bit about riding people hard. It’s what they do best.”

  Keats was caught by the man’s honesty. “Why did you do all this? You hate me.”

  The inspector frowned at him. “Fisher asked me to.”

  “Ordered you to, more likely.”

  A nod. “He didn’t have to, though. I would have taken it on anyway.”

  “Why?” Keats challenged.

  “Because the other men would always think I’d let you go to the noose just to be rid of you. Then they’d wonder if I’d do the same to them.”

  Keats didn’t know what to say. He’d so misjudged this man. Misjudged so many things in his life.

  Ramsey retrieved something from under his coat and dropped it on the table with a thump. “Your diary.”

  “Why do you have it?” Keats asked, furious someone may have read his personal thoughts.

  “It was evidence. Don’t worry, I only read your last entry. It’s what made me realize I might have been wrong about you.”

  Before Keats could reply, the cell door creaked open. Kingsbury entered. Behind him was Alastair. He could read nothing on their faces. Nevertheless, his heart began to pound.

  “Sergeant?” Kingsbury began. “The Lord Chief Justice has issued his ruling, in record time, I might add.” In the hall, Keats heard someone complaining about a lost bet. His heart sank.

  “Am I still for the rope, sir?”

  The barrister’s face formed into a triumphant smile. “No, Mr. Berry’s next appointment will not be you.”

  “What?”

  Alastair shot both fists into the air like a prizefighter at the end of a match. “You’re a free man, Keats! Do you understand? Free!”

  Before he could react, Ramsey slapped him hard on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Bloody hell, you did it, gnome.”

  “I’m free?”

  “Absolutely,” Kingsbury replied. “Arnett grilled Mr. O’Donnell, but nothing he could do would shake that man’s basic honesty. He couldn’t shift the other witness’ testimony either. Miss Kelly put you in Whitechapel at just the right time. The Crown Prosecutor finally gave in. The Lord Chief Justice accepted the new evidence, in total, and your conviction has been overturned.”

  “Dear God…” he whispered, collapsing onto his cot. Then a moment later, he shot to his feet. “How soon may I leave?”

  “At this very moment.”

  Euphoria floated him out of Newgate Prison as guards called out their best wishes, including the two who’d watched over him.

  “Cost me five shillings, you did,” one said. “I’da thought they’d hang you for sure.”

  Keats smiled wanly. “I won’t say I’m upset you lost the bet.”

  The guard laughed. “Stay outside these walls, will ya?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  The moment he stepped outside the prison walls, he looked up, just as he had in Birdcage Walk.

  Thank you, God. I shall never forget this.

  He followed Alastair to a waiting carriage. Once inside, the elation began to wane, like air from a leaking balloon.

  “Are we going to my rooms?” Keats asked, realizing they were in motion.

  “No, we’re going to my home,” Alastair replied. “It’ll be quieter there. I have a spare room, and you are welcome to it as long as you wish. I think it might not be prudent for you to return to your rooms for a few days. Not everyone is pleased that you have been found innocent.”

  “Have they arrested the man who tried to kill Lord Wescomb?”

  “No. We had hoped he would appear at one of the hospitals or clinics for treatment, but it hasn’t happened.”

  “Which meant he had a private patron to care for him.”

  “Or
he’s already dead and in some obscure grave,” Alastair concluded. “I believe I might have seen the man. Someone was watching us at the Viaduct Tavern. I’ve given the description to the police. From what I hear, it is a match to the one Wescomb’s butler supplied.”

  Keats went quiet. He had nothing else he wanted to ask. He half-expected someone to stop the carriage and haul him back to the scaffold.

  He was only vaguely aware when their journey ended. Once inside the house, he hung his coat and hat on a peg near the front door in a mechanical fashion, not registering any of the details around him. He heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming down the hall toward them. It was a woman in a white apron. She looked about thirty or so, with brown hair and a welcoming smile.

  “Mrs. Butler, this is Sergeant Keats. He’ll be staying with us for a time,” his host explained. “His conviction has been overturned.”

  Her face broke out in a huge smile. “I’m so happy to hear that, sir.” The woman looked Keats straight in the eye. “I’m pleased you proved ’em wrong,” she said.

  Alastair handed over a parcel. “These are his old clothes. If you could tidy them up, that would be ideal. We may have need of them soon.”

  “Certainly.” She scurried off before Keats could thank her.

  The parlor was small, but not empty. A figure rose from a chair. “Jonathon?”

  Part of his oblivion lifted. “Jacynda…” He felt her arms around him, embracing. He was on the verge of tears, though he knew it was undignified.

  Cynda felt Keats shiver. His face was sallow, pinched. He had aged in a few short weeks. Behind them, Alastair murmured something and left them alone.

  “Sit down, you look awful.” In the end, she had to guide him to the couch and then he still would not loosen his grip on her hand.

  “I am found innocent. I won’t have to go back to the prison,” he said, hoarsely. It sounded like he was trying to reassure himself.

  “What’s going on with him?” Mr. Spider asked, studying him from her shoulder.

  Nothing good.

  “Jonathon?” It took a moment for him to realize she was talking to him. He looked over with bloodshot eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

  He didn’t reply.

  Alastair came out of the kitchen, a tray in hand. He quickly assessed the situation. “If he needs to rest, there’s a spare room upstairs. It’s his for the duration.”

  Keats didn’t stir. He reminded her of a child’s toy whose spring had run down.

  She took his hand. “Come with me. You can have tea later.”

  “If he needs something to help him sleep, let me know,” the doctor said softly.

  She nodded and led the former prisoner to the bedroom. Without a word, Keats removed his jacket and boots and then swung his feet into the bed. She’d expected some comment about propriety. Nothing.

  “It’s like someone forgot to turn off the light when he left,” Mr. Spider said, perching on the headboard.

  Like me, after the reboot.

  She tucked the blanket around him and sat on the bed. He snaked a hand out from under the covers and grasped hers. “Alastair told me what you did, with Flaherty and the prince.”

  “It was the Fenian’s decision in the end. I couldn’t have forced him. It was because of his daughter.”

  Keats frowned. “Is he willing to give us the explosives if we find her?”

  Cynda nodded, though her gut told her it wasn’t that simple.

  “Let me rest and then I’ll go out tonight.”

  “Promise me you won’t go on your own.”

  There was no reply as his eyes drifted shut. Cynda placed a kiss on his forehead. “I’ve missed you,” she said.

  She sat next to him until his breathing grew deep and regular. Carefully rising from the bed, she tucked his hand back under the covers.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” her delusion offered.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly.

  Even in sleep, Keats did not look at peace.

  She found Alastair in the parlour, sitting on the couch. He looked older as well, evidence this ordeal had affected all of them in some way.

  “He was in good spirits when he left Newgate,” he said. “Now, he is so distant.”

  “Not surprising, though,” she replied. “After a huge shock, the mind has to regroup.” She huffed. “I’ve done that a couple of times myself.”

  “I am still concerned about him. He is very bitter, and though I understand that emotion, I fear what it might do to him in time.”

  “What about his position at the Yard?” she asked.

  Alastair shook his head. “I doubt he’ll be welcomed back. Fisher would want him, Ramsey as well, but his affiliation with Miss Hallcox has tainted him in some eyes.”

  “Then what will he do if he isn’t a cop?”

  “Private consulting, perhaps. He has the skills. It just depends on whether he is willing to give up his dream and move in a new direction.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on her. “You know that well, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, meeting her eyes. “I would have had a fine house, a wife, a growing practice if I’d remained with Dr. Hanson. Now I have a nice house, a nascent practice and I am my own man, free to come and go as I choose.”

  “Any regrets?”

  “Certainly. I regret losing Evelyn. However, recently she and I have been meeting again. We’ve never gotten to the heart of the matter between us, but I suspect that will come eventually.”

  “Is there any chance…?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “We must clear the air between us first.”

  “That is encouraging news, Alastair,” she said, though part of her felt a pang of loss. If he and his former fiancée could find their way forward, it was for the best, wasn’t it?

  Yes and no. In stray moments she’d thought of what it would be like to stay in London with him or Keats. It would stomp on all the rules, but would that matter if she was happy?

  “Jacynda?” he asked gently.

  “Hmm?” She looked up at him. “I was thinking what it might have been like.”

  “With me…or with Keats?”

  Cynda spread her hands. “That was the problem. I care for you both. I choose one, I hurt the other.”

  The doctor nodded and rose. “I’ll go check on him. No doubt he’s asleep, but I still worry. He’s had a tremendous shock.”

  “He’s talking about going out to try to find Fiona. Please, don’t let him go alone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Thanks. I’d better get back to the hotel. Morrisey promised he’d stay put, but he can be willful.”

  She heard a chuckle as Alastair ascended the stairs. “Pot calling the kettle black, I’d say.”

  ~••~••~••~

  In some ways it was very devious, but it paid to be cautious. Just because someone named Morrisey was at Adelaide’s doorstep asking to see Mr. Livingston, didn’t mean the visitor was the real item. The Theo he knew avoided time travel at all costs.

  “Are you ready?” Adelaide asked. Defoe tapped a kiss on her cheek, inhaling the soft scent of her perfume.

  “I am,” he said, fading from view.

  He watched as his lover opened the door to the drawing room, taking his place next to her, unseen. If this were an enemy, he would be in for one hell of a surprise.

  “Mr. Morrisey?” she asked politely.

  The man bowed effortlessly. No one from 2058 would be able to do that…except Theo. Years of dojo training made the gesture as automatic for him as breathing.

  “Good evening, madam,” the man replied. “I apologize for my abrupt arrival.”

  Adelaide maintained a discreet distance. “My butler said you are trying to locate Mr. Livingston. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, madam. He is a business associate of mine, and I have some information I need to impart to him of a most urgent nature.”

  Complex speech. Th
eo always used more words than were needed, but so did the Victorians. Defoe moved closer.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Morrisey. I have not seen him for over a week.”

  “Oh.” The man said, looking genuinely disappointed. “Do you have any notion of where he is staying?”

  Adelaide delivered a demure shake of the head.

  “Then I apologize for impinging on your time, madam.” Another bow and the fellow left the house as quickly as possible.

  Defoe shifted into view right before he exited the front door. Once on the street, he watched how the man moved. It was Theo: he had a certain rhythm to his step. Defoe hurried to catch up with him.

  “Damn,” his friend muttered. “Where are you, Harter?”

  “Here,” he said, en mirage as Livingston.

  Morrisey was in a defensive posture in a heartbeat. Once he realized how that appeared, he straightened himself, glancing around the street, chagrined. Beneath the calm exterior, Defoe knew his friend was steaming.

  “No wonder people shoot you,” Theo remarked.

  Defoe laughed. “It’s good to see you again. Come along, let’s go back inside.”

  “If you haven’t heard, Keats is free.”

  Defoe halted mid-step and swiveled toward him. “I’ll be damned. She actually pulled it off.”

  “Of course she did,” Morrisey replied, sounding annoyed.

  “So what in the hell are you doing here?” Defoe asked.

  “TPB has issued a Restricted Force Warrant for me.”

  Defoe laughed. “Welcome to the criminal classes, Theo. I knew I’d corrupt you eventually.” He waved him forward. “Come on, I’ll re-introduce you to Adelaide. You need to know what’s going on here.”

  ~••~••~••~

  You didn’t get to be Lead Assassin by waiting for your superior to die in his bed. Unless, of course, you were busily suffocating him with a plump pillow. Satyr couldn’t tell which of the Seven was tailing him. That ability eluded him. Still, he knew it was one of them. Tobin? Most likely.

  Just to make it sporting, Satyr had not varied his form, but kept to his most favorite, the one the Seven knew so well. He continued his way down the lane and then turned into the first passageway, one of the narrow ones that the East End seemed to favor. As he walked, he studied the walls around him. What few windows he spied were hidden behind shutters.