Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (13 page)

Ramsey glowered as he jotted a line in his notebook. They’d visited every coffin maker they could find in Whitechapel. All claimed they could account for each piece of stock, and none employed a large Irish fellow who might be a Fenian.

“No luck so far,” Anderson commented, surveying the scene around them. “Your job reminds me of mine. I spend the entire day wearing down my boot leather while people lie to me.”

Ramsey snorted. “People in Whitechapel are closed mouthed. Jesus Christ himself could appear in the middle of Commercial Street, and no one would claim to have seen him. Well, except the toolers. They’d have his pockets picked in no time.”

Anderson gave him a bemused expression.

“It’ll happen some day, mark my word,” Ramsey added. “Best not to put that in your paper, though.”

“Agreed. So now where do we go?”

Ramsey flicked open his watch. That attracted the interest of a grubby boy loitering nearby. The copper shook his head at the pint-sized thief who scooted off in search of a less savvy victim.

“Let’s find some food and then we’ll do the rounds of the pubs. See what we can hear.”

“Surely they know you down here,” Anderson protested. “They wouldn’t talk to a cop.”

Ramsey eyed him. “You’ve done some studying on me, haven’t you?”

Anderson nodded. “You used to work at Leman Street Station. You spent a number of years in the Whitechapel district before you moved up to the Yard.”

“Like Keats. He started in Arbour Square. Those are rough patches for new coppers.”

“You both survived.”

Ramsey grunted. “Tomorrow, we’ll go north to Ingatestone, check the sergeant’s alibi in that part of the country.”

“You actually expect to find a coffin in the middle of the forest?” Anderson asked.

“I once found one lying in the street with a gent in it. He’d been dead for a very long time, they said, at least one hundred years. Now how in the hell he got out of the ground we never did find out.”

“So what’d you do?”

“Had him reburied and threw a wake. That’s about the only thing the Irish get right.”

“You don’t like them, do you?” Anderson quizzed, his pencil suddenly appearing in his hand, the notebook open.

The inspector didn’t hold his tongue. “I don’t like any of ’em—Irish, Hebrews, Germans, Poles, Russians,” he paused for effect, “even Americans, not if they’re making plans to bugger up my country. Now if they’re here to earn a few quid, raise their families, go to whatever sort of foreign church they go to, I’m good with all that. They start making explosives and spouting nonsense about revolution, and they become my enemies.”

“That seems pretty simplistic.”

“Coppers like it simple. We leave the politics and all that shite to the highborn. We just get on with the job.”

“Did Sergeant Keats
get on with the job
, as you say?”

“Yes. He’s a sharp one. Got up my nose every time he could.”

“Did you do likewise?”

Ramsey laughed. “Of course. That’s what inspectors are supposed to do.” He set off walking. “Food first. Oh, and mind that notebook and pen of yours.”

“Why?”

“They’ll steal you blind here, right down to the clothes you were wearing the day you were born.”

“Sounds like Chicago,” Anderson replied, carefully tucking away the items.

“Then you’ll feel right at home,” Ramsey shot back, leading the way.

~••~••~••~

“There’s a little inflammation, but less than I thought there’d be,” Alastair replied, gently examining the healing rib. The bruises had faded to a dull gray-green.

Keats observed his efforts solemnly. “Is Jacynda any better?”

“No. Still very quiet and unsure. Mrs. Butler plans to take her to the market this afternoon just to get her out of the house. She’s not hard to manage, just very docile.”

“So very unlike Jacynda,” Keats replied.

Alastair nodded. “You can put your shirt back on.”

As Keats slowly worked his way into the garment, the doctor packed his bag. Noise from the jail filtered into the cell.

“Your head wound has healed very neatly,” Alastair reported, feeling some positive news was needed.

“Probably the vicar’s salve,” Keats remarked. “He seemed very proud of it.” When he saw the doctor’s puzzled expression, he added, “I met him and a very pretty lady named Lily when I was staying with the bums on my way to Ingatestone. The vicar was very…gregarious.”

Alastair clicked the bag shut. “I’ll go to your rooms, obtain a change of clothing and toiletry items.”

“Thank you. Pull out my new suit. I just got it from the tailor. I never thought I’d be wearing it at my trial.”

There was an awkward pause.

“They’ll move me in the next day or two. I’ll be at Newgate.”

“I’ll be there. If you need anything, send me word. I mean that.”

Keats nodded. “Fisher came to see me this morning.”

“How did it go?”

“Very poorly. He’s furious at me for being an idiot.”

“It is hard when a father sees a son headed in the wrong direction.”

Keats looked up at him. “He has become my father in many ways, and I have let him down.”

Alastair placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Keep hope. We’ll get this sorted.” He saw the empty look in the sergeant’s eyes.

He doesn’t believe a word I’ve said.

~••~••~••~

“Is this like Chicago?” Ramsey asked as they entered the Britannia.

Anderson glanced around the pub. “Exactly, except I can’t understand what most of these folks are saying.”

Ramsey cracked a smile. “You should hear them when they’re not drunk. It’s worse.”

The publican promptly served up the pints they’d ordered. Ramsey shoved the coins across the bar and gestured for Anderson to pick up the ale. He trailed after the inspector as they went on the hunt for a free table.

“This’ll do,” Ramsey said, settling his bulk so he could watch the door.

“Do you honestly expect someone to come up to you so openly?” Anderson asked after a sip of his pint.

“That’s not how it works. The people I need to talk to will see me here. If they have anything to tell me, they’ll find me later in the evening. It’s like being a whore, you see. You advertise your wares and then wait for the punters to come to you.”

“You’re a very colorful fellow, Inspector.”

The cop’s attention moved to him. “You’re the same, Mr. Anderson, though you look otherwise.” He scrutinized the man’s face. “There’s more to you than what you’re telling Warren.”

“Such as?”

“I sent a cable to Chicago. The
Herald
never heard of you.” Ramsey waited for the reaction.

A nod of respect came his way, along with a faint smile. “Why did you think to check?”

Hard to rattle. He’d be a good one in a fight
.

“I checked because I’m a copper. Warren, he’s a military man. He doesn’t expect people to lie to him.” Ramsey leaned over. “So who the hell are you?”

“Robert Anderson…Pinkerton Agency,” the man replied. “I have a letter of introduction in my pocket, if you need it.”

“No. That fits. Course, I’ll be checking that as well. Warren know who you are?”

“Most certainly.”

“So why are you nosing around London?”

“Explosives.”

Ramsey stiffened. “That’s our job.”

“It is, but we’ve heard there is a chance some of that missing dynamite might end up in New York or Chicago.”

“Not everyone’s happy in America?” Ramsey smirked.

“No, they’re not. It won’t be the Irish, of course. We’re a safe haven for them, but there are others who love to see our country in revolt.”

Ramsey sucked down more of his ale. “So what about those newspapers articles you’re supposed to writing?”

“I send the stories to a reporter who
does
work for the
Herald
. He files the articles under both our names, but collects the money.”

“That doesn’t trouble the newspaper?”

“Not really, as long as they get a good story.”

“What about your bosses?”

“They’re fine with the arrangement.”

“Sounds like a right mess,” Ramsey commented, his eyes roaming over the patrons. “I’ll have to tell Fisher.”

“I expected that,” the man replied. Anderson leaned back in his chair, his eyes roaming over the pub’s patrons. “Anyone look promising?”

“A couple. We’ll finish off these pints and then go for a stroll. You posh detectives, you know how to defend yourselves?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Problem with displaying our wares is that not everyone just wants to talk to us.”

After they’d drained their drinks, Ramsey set off at a brisk pace, causing Anderson to hustle to keep up with him. “After we’re done, we’ll have to go a bit before we can catch a hansom,” the inspector advised. “They don’t like coming into this part of the city.”

“I can see why.”

The inspector swept his eyes over the street, trying to see it from the American’s point of view. Costermongers, newsboys, whores, a flower seller or two, a few shady characters lounging in the doorways, sizing up potential marks.

Heaven.
At least to a copper.

After a series of twists and turns, Ramsey shot down an alley. It was grimy, like most of them.

“Now what?” Anderson asked.

“We wait.”

“I liked it better in the pub.”

It wasn’t long before a figure edged down the passageway, constantly looking over his shoulder.

Ramsey stepped forward. “Keep watch for us, will you?”

“As you wish,” Anderson replied, moving a few steps away to give the illusion of privacy.

“Copper,” the man mumbled.

“Evening, cheesemonger. Any word?”

The man shook his head. “Nothing. It’s quiet right now.”

“Quiet in a good way or…”

Another shake of the head. “People are scared.”

“Because of our Irish friend?”

“No.”

That surprised Ramsey. “Someone new in town?”

“No. Has something to do with those explosives.”

“Flaherty has those,” Ramsey said, testing the waters.

A shake of the head. “I’ve heard rumors that he doesn’t.”

Then Keats was right.
“Anything else?”

“That’s all I got.”

Ramsey offered a coin. “If you hear anything more, let me know.”

With one last look at Anderson, the informant slipped into the shadows.

Ramsey grumbled, “You think you know all the rats, and another crawls out of the woodwork.”

“This alley is rank,” Anderson commented, twitching his nose.

“They don’t stink in Chicago?”

The edges of the fellow’s mouth tugged slightly upward. “No, we pave them in gold. I thought everyone knew that.”

Ramsey laughed. “Shite is more likely. I heard about your big stockyard.”

There was the sound of footsteps as a snaggly-toothed man emerged out of the shadows.

“Oy, it’s that rozzer come to spy on us.”

“Old Dan. Been a while, hasn’t it?” Ramsey looked over at Anderson and gestured toward the newcomer. “Dan here went to Pentonville Prison for robbery. Twice.” He lowered his voice. “Keeps making the same mistakes. He’s not quick on the uptake.”

Old Dan snorted. “Yer the copper who put me there. Whatcha doin’ on my patch?”

“London is
my
patch, gents. Maybe someone didn’t you tell you that.”

“Ya think ya own it all, don’t ya?” The man spat. “I hates rozzers. Same with me mates here.” Three other men emerged out of the shadows.

Ramsey laughed. “Is this enough like Chicago for you, Mr. Anderson?”

“Just like home.”

The inspector put his hands on his hips. “It’s this way, gents. You walk off and we call it even. You mess with us, you go to the clink. You might even end up with something broken. That would be a shame, though I certainly won’t cry about it.”

“There’s four of us. We like those kinds of odds, rozzer,” Old Dan replied.

As the toughs moved forward, the inspector squared off, raising his fists. Anderson just stood there. The moment one of them came into range, his hand flicked out and caught the man across the neck. The fellow was down in an instant, moaning in pain.

The inspector’s face broke into an ecstatic smile. “Last chance, gents. You can walk away right now, or you’re up for a proper kicking.”

Half an hour later, they were in a hansom heading toward the Yard.

“What was it you did back there?” Ramsey asked incredulously. “I’ve never seen someone dropped that fast!”