Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (14 page)

“Posh detective secret,” Anderson replied with a rare grin. “Can’t share it with you.”

The inspector guffawed. “I deserved that. I about split a gut when they took to their heels.”

“It’ll make a good article for the paper. Of course, I’ll say you dropped the man instead of me.”

“No. Tell it like it happened.” Ramsey switched back to business. “Keats’ arraignment is in the morning. Once that’s done, we’ll take a day in the country.”

“After Whitechapel, it’ll be a nice change,” Anderson replied.

“Anything is a nice change after this sewer.”

Alastair stood across the street, gathering his courage. Tonight, he would be taking an extraordinary gamble. The Artifice Club was a large, five-story structure with Doric columns. Inside were a series of rooms housing various gentlemen’s clubs. The Conclave was at home in #8, which for some arcane reason shifted locations within the building on a daily basis.

Of the four members, Alastair was the most junior. George Hastings, nominally the leader of the group, ruled mostly by an overbearing attitude. His lackey, Edward Cartwright, always sided with him. Then there was Malachi Livingston, the man Jacynda believed was from her time.

Alastair shivered, focusing harder on the image he presented. People walking by would see a middle-aged man, well dressed in top hat and cape. They saw what he wished them to see. Nevertheless, even the shifters were not immune to discovery. He’d have to surrender his outer garments to the room steward, so he had purchased them just this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, he would resell them, hopefully not receiving the worse end of the bargain.

As he waited, he realized how far he’d fallen. He had intended only to use his ability for Keats’ benefit, but now it was for Jacynda’s. Tomorrow, it might be for someone else’s. Each step took him further down a road he’d never intended to travel.

Though he hated to admit it, this deception was a matter of necessity, even were it not for Jacynda’s condition. If Livingston were absent from the club for too long, they’d vote a replacement, most likely another one of Hastings’ toadies. Hastings was not known for rational decisions: he’d hired thugs to destroy Alastair’s clinic when the doctor refused to follow The Conclave’s orders. Ironically, that had led to the doctor’s new situation with Reuben Bishop. Nevertheless, Alastair certainly wasn’t about to thank the old warhorse.

He’d always thought The Conclave was the power structure in the Transitive community. Now he saw it more as a decoy, a lightning rod in case someone needed to take the blame. It was Livingston’s view that the Ascendant pulled George Hastings’ strings. In return, Hastings appeared important to those who didn’t know the truth. It was all a game, like some amateur séance designed to awe the gullible.

I almost fell for it.

Alastair took a deep breath and strode across the street. If Livingston were inside the club, it would be awkward. If not, he would preserve the man’s position and might learn something of value during the encounter.

As he entered the antechamber, Ronald, the eighth room steward, snapped to attention. “Good evening, Mr. Livingston,” he greeted with a polite smile.

“Good evening, Ronald. I trust all is well,” Alastair replied, working hard to sound just right. Other Transitives could mimic voices with ease. He was too unseasoned to do it unconsciously.

“Very well now that you’ve returned,” Ronald said. “I trust you had no difficulties?”

“Only urgent business matters,” Alastair replied, offering his hat and cape. “Is the doctor here tonight?” It would be the kind of question Livingston would ask.

“No, sir, he’s not.”

“Pity. Hastings and Cartwright, then?”

“As usual, sir.” Ronald gave him a penetrating look that made Alastair uncomfortable. As the steward opened the door, the doctor prepared himself for the show.

“Ah, there you are Livingston,” Hastings called out, spewing a plume of cigar smoke into the air. “I wondered where you’d gotten to.” He sat on the far right, brandy and cheroot in hand. Cartwright was working on his crossword puzzle, brows knitted. He looked up, gave a nod, and then resumed his efforts.

Moving purposefully, Alastair settled into Livingston’s preferred seat. Ronald offered brandy and a cigar.

“Cigar only, thank you.” It took enough effort to hold Livingston’s form without adding liquor to the mix. The required level of concentration was wearying.

“So where have you been?” Hastings inquired.

“Business,” Alastair replied, taking a few puffs on the cigar. It was of excellent quality. He’d never understood where the money came from for these indulgences. Who paid for all the fine furnishings, the leather chairs, the food, alcohol, and Ronald’s attentive service? Though modest in size compared to many of the gentlemen’s clubs in London, this room was certainly top-notch. Lord Wescomb, even the Prince of Wales, would feel at home here. Yet no one ever asked for any fees.

Probably best not to know whose pocket we’re picking.

“The doctor hasn’t been here, either,” Hastings observed.

“No doubt embarrassed by our chess games. I always let him win, and I think he knows it.”

From the heartiness of Hastings’ laugh, it was clear that he hadn’t a clue this wasn’t Livingston. Alastair felt a thrill of exhilaration.

The moment Ronald retreated to the antechamber, Hastings leaned forward in his chair.

“We have a problem, one we could not address with the doctor present.”

“Which is?” Alastair pressed, relishing this moment.

“Sergeant Keats is in custody,” Hastings informed him. “From what I hear, he will be found guilty.”

“You sound so sure of that.”

“He
will
be found guilty,” Hastings repeated. “That makes it very dangerous for us.”

Cartwright flicked his eyes back and forth between the pair of them, but said nothing.

“Why is that a danger?” Alastair asked, his hackles rising.

“If he is found guilty, there is nothing to prevent him from revealing our secret to save his own skin.”

Alastair took another long puff on the cigar, just like Livingston. “You believe he will offer that information in trade for commutation of his sentence to a lesser penalty?”

“Or his freedom,” Hastings said, shooting a look at Cartwright and then back to Alastair. “He must not be allowed that opportunity.”

Hastings was coldly proposing Keats’ death, yet again. He had done so in the past, but had been voted down. To calm his burgeoning anger, Alastair blew a smoke ring and then instantly regretted it. Had Livingston ever done that?
Well, too late now.
“Your worry is admirable, but misplaced.”

“Why?” Hastings protested. “He can prove we exist.”

Might as well let the cat out of the bag.
“On the contrary. I have it on very good authority that Keats is no longer capable of going
en mirage.
”

“How do you know that?” Cartwright asked.

“I know many things, gentlemen,” he declared, adopting Livingston’s authoritarian tone. “The injury the sergeant took that night against the anarchist rendered him Opaque, as it were. He cannot shift.”

Hastings frowned. “We’re wagering our existence on some rumor.”

Alastair shook his head. “It is not a rumor. Dr. Montrose told me in strict confidence.”

“And yet you share it with us?” Hastings challenged.

Alastair shrugged, as if it were of no import.

“Keats could heal,” Cartwright began.

“No, he will not.” The doctor tossed the cigar stub into the fire. “We are free of this danger, gentlemen. If we intercede, we risk revealing ourselves.”

Hastings gnawed on his cigar stub. “It may well be beyond that point, to be honest. I was only informing you as a matter of courtesy.”

“Courtesy?” Alastair rose, dusting off a cuff as he’d seen Livingston do more than once. He pitched his voice perfectly. “It would be best for you, Hastings, and for The Conclave, that the sergeant is left alone. He cannot reveal our secret if he cannot prove it. If he attempts to do so, he will sound mad to his keepers. As I indicated the last time we spoke of this matter, I will take it very seriously if anything should happen to the man.”

Hastings was staring at him intently. “Why?”

“Because if you’ll stab him in the back, eventually you may do the same to me.” Alastair took a gamble. “Warn your superior that it is not in his best interest to pursue this.”

Hastings looked away. “I can’t do that,” he muttered. “He’ll have one of his assassins after me in a flash.”

So it is the Ascendant who holds the ring in your nose.

“Better one of them than me, Hastings,” Alastair replied, putting just the right amount of malice behind the words.

He swept out of the room as Livingston would have done. He could hear hushed voices behind him. His threat had hit home.

As he donned his cape and hat, Ronald gave him an approving nod. Though the door was closed, the steward bent forward and whispered, “Well done, Doctor.”

“How—”

“The top hat. Mr. Livingston’s is from Oxford Street. Yours is decidedly not.”

“Oh.” Recovering, Alastair slipped Ronald a generous tip. “Do you have any notion where he is?”

“No. I’ve not heard anything of him.”

“When he does reappear, give him this, will you?” Alastair handed over one of his personal cards. “It’s my new address. I must speak with him on an urgent matter.”

“Most certainly, sir.” Ronald’s voice was louder now. “Good evening, Mr. Livingston.”

“Good evening, Ronald.”

Alastair made it only a block away before he found a dark corner and shifted to his own form. While the ordeal left his stomach churning, the weariness resolved more quickly than he’d expected. After flattening the top hat and wrapping it in the cape, he headed home. In the morning he would speak to Lord Wescomb about the threat to Keats’ life. In some perverse way his friend might be safest in a prison cell.

~••~••~••~

Monday, 29 October, 1888

Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)

The report of Keats’ arrest had spread quickly, through the newspapers and by word of mouth. Alastair was not surprised to find the courtroom filling rapidly with an audience eager to see Keats
in the flesh as he made his plea. It’d be worse when the actual trial began.

They love a show.

As he jostled forward in the crowd, he heard a voice call his name. For all the noise, it was remarkable he could hear it. He turned and was rewarded with a sight he’d never expected.

“Evelyn?”

She stood apart from the crowd, clad in an emerald-green dress edged in beige lace, her brown hair arranged stylishly under a matching hat. Behind her, he noted another woman. Her lady’s maid.

Up close, Evelyn Hanson looked more careworn than before. That wasn’t surprising, given that she’d been compelled to break two engagements within the span of a few months. Evidently, each personal disappointment had exacted a heavy emotional toll. When he finally reached her, he hesitated, unsure of how he might be received. What would her father think? Although Dr. Hanson recently had given him permission to see Evelyn again, his former employer had been the one to quash their engagement in the first place.

It would not hurt to be courteous.
He owed her that much.

Alastair took her gloved hand and kissed it. Looking upward, he was pleased to note a subtle smile poised on her face.

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“You,” she replied simply. “I read of your friend and knew you’d be here to support him. I thought you might like support of your own.”

She doesn’t hate me.
Relief washed over him. It could so easily have proven the opposite. He’d openly challenged her father about who should be deemed worthy of medical treatment, and the vehement argument had led to Dr. Hanson ending the engagement.

As if that weren’t enough, Alastair had dashed Evelyn’s future with her subsequent fiancée, by confronting the young rake and warning him that he might have contracted syphilis from Nicci Hallcox. Lord Patton had refused to be examined for the disease, seemingly unconcerned that he may pass the infection to his future wife. To Alastair’s surprise, Evelyn had sundered
that
engagement on her own.

“Alastair?” she nudged.

“Sorry, I was thinking about…all that has come to pass between us,” he said.

“I hold no anger for you over Lord Patton,” she told him, as if divining his thoughts. “How can I dislike a man who saved my life?”

He felt humbled. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Perhaps I do.”

Too overcome to speak, he offered a smile and guided her to seats in the spectator’s gallery, her maid trailing behind. The moment they were settled, there was a clamor. The doctor swiveled and watched as his best friend made his way into the dock. Keats was clean-shaven and wearing the suit Alastair had fetched for him. A rattling of chains accompanied the prisoner’s every move. The doctor could feel his stomach turning.
This must be hell for him.

“He looks so calm,” Evelyn murmured.

“I suspect he has no other choice,” Alastair replied grimly.

Keats saw them at that moment, and the ghost of a smile appeared. He did look better than the night before. The doctor gave a reassuring nod and it was returned.

When the time came, Keats stood with a clank of chains.

“Not guilty, my lord,” he announced to the judge, his voice sure and strong.

“Not guilty? That’s a crock. He done her for sure,” a gent commented two seats away. “He’s a rozzer. He didn’t think he’d get nicked.”

“Shoulda stayed in Whitechapel,” another weighed in. “They’d-a never bothered him if he’d choked some whore down there.”