Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (2 page)

His superior looked up. “Ah, there you are, Mr. S.” He gestured with a fork toward the newsprint. “It appears you had an eventful evening, so I will forgive your tardiness.”

Better that you do.
Satyr removed his hat and coat, placing them on the chair nearest the door. He rang the bell near his plate. A deferential waiter appeared instantly.

“More sausages, please.” The Ascendant had eaten the majority of them, and the remainder would not be hot. Sausages had to be the proper temperature or there was no reason to consume them.

His superior was studying the newsprint again. That was just as well. Satyr was not in the mood for light conversation. Where once there had been a respectful give-and-take between them, he’d noted a change in his leader’s recent behavior. More authoritative, with an inclination to meddle.

“Your sausages, sir,” the waiter announced, setting a colorful Majolica bowl in front of him.

“Thank you. That will be all.” The door closed behind the servant as the mouth watering aroma of spiced meat filled the air. Satyr repressed a sigh of appreciation.

“Well?” the Ascendant inquired, looking up from his paper.

Satyr ignored him, forking three links onto his plate and then carefully replacing the lid on the bowl.

“You are very subdued this morning,” the Ascendant probed. “Did something go wrong?”

Satyr paused in his precise dissection of a sausage. “No, matters went very well. I dispatched Effington inside one of his warehouses and then burnt it to the ground. Very satisfactory.”

“Yes, so I see,” the Ascendant replied, gesturing at the paper. “There is a particularly lengthy article about the fire and the discovery of the corpse.”

Satyr did not reply, savoring the taste of the hot pork. He knew what was coming.

“I trust there will be no repercussions of last night’s activities?”

“None.”

“No witnesses?”

Satyr’s hand tightened on the knife. “No.”

“What of Miss Lassiter? I do not note an article regarding her demise.”

“That situation is under control.”

“Is she alive or dead?”

“Depends on how you look at it.”

A grunt of disapproval. “Satyr, you are my Lead Assassin. I would expect such distraction from one of your juniors. I have repeatedly asked you to remove this person, and you are ignoring my orders.”

“I am not distracted, sir. Miss Lassiter is dead, at least in the mental sense.”

“I am not in the mood for cryptic games!” the Ascendant snapped.

Satyr deliberately placed his knife on the table to avoid employing it on something other than the food. Then he looked deep into the Ascendant’s eyes. To the man’s credit, he didn’t look away. His predecessor had always blinked. That one hadn’t lasted long.

“At present, Miss Lassiter’s mental capacity is that of a child,” Satyr explained, holding his irritation in check. “She has no memory to speak of. She doesn’t even know her own name.”

The Ascendant settled back with a frown. “How did you accomplish this?”

“I do not reveal my techniques, sir. You know that.”

The frown deepened. “You assure me that she is no longer a threat.”

“No threat at all.”

“Why didn’t you just kill her?” his superior demanded.

“This seemed a better solution.”

“Where is she now?”

“In Bedlam.”

“Under her own name?”

“I am not stupid, sir,” Satyr hissed.

“Well, of course not. What if she regains her memories?”

“Highly unlikely.” He snatched up his knife and attacked the links with considerable annoyance. “If she does, I’ll promptly cut her throat.”

“No need to be petulant. My concern lies with the safety of my plan.”

“Your plan, as much of it as I am able to fathom, is on track, sir. Effington is dead. By serendipity, Detective-Sergeant Keats is the lead suspect in Nicci Hallcox’s murder, and the explosives are secure. I’d say you’re worrying too much.”

The Ascendant tossed his napkin on the table and rose. “I sense you are going to be difficult this morning, Mr. S., so I shall take the remainder of my breakfast at my club. When you cease being so tedious, feel free to join me again.”

The moment his superior was out the door and on the street, Satyr felt his appetite fade. In the end, he couldn’t cut Miss Lassiter’s throat or pierce her heart like he had Effington.
That
killing had been righteous; hers would have been heinous. It would have been like crushing a rare butterfly just to know what it felt like.

His hand sank into a pocket and retrieved the silver tube, the device he’d used to render her a huddled, blank-faced bundle of humanity. He turned it, studying how the light from the gas lamps glinted off the shining surface. Such a simple instrument to cause such destruction.

An odd sensation stirred within him. Remorse? He doubted it, yet there was a tight band around his throat just the same.

Detective-Sergeant Jonathon Keats sat in the dining hall, just one of many laborers enjoying the substantial food at cheap prices. Of course, he wasn’t there in any official capacity. To the locals he was known as Sean Murphy, and while one eye was on the newspaper, the other searched for anyone who resembled a constable. Caution had quickly become second nature.

With the babble of voices, Keats found it hard to concentrate on his paper.

QUESTIONS ARISE IN MAYFAIR CASE

Did Scotland Yard Shield One of Their Own?

Keats Still On the Run

As if I ever would have had relations with such a despicable woman.
The thought was repulsive, enough to make him regret the meal he’d just eaten. In his opinion, Nicci Hallcox was not a beauty, even
en mirage
. If anything, it was that she represented all that was dark within the human soul. Yet for many, he had to concede, that darkness was an irresistible lure.

As it happened, Nicci considered his revulsion to be a challenge. The last time she’d suggested he spend a night in her bed, she’d dangled a most appealing bait: information about the cache of stolen explosives Desmond Flaherty had so boldly carted off. Instead of taking that bait, Keats had stomped off, swearing he’d find the explosives without her help. In doing so, he’d fanned her wrath and that of her drunken butler.

My first mistake.

There was the scrape of a chair on the wooden floor as a dockworker seated himself farther down the long table. “I heard some toff got burnt up,” he remarked before tucking into his food.

The fire in Wapping was on everyone’s lips. Any blaze that started within a warehouse was of interest in the docks. Keats busily scanned the newsprint until he found the article. To his surprise, he noted his best friend, Alastair Montrose, had been present.

Probably trying to find me.
A pang of remorse shot through him. The last few weeks had seen their friendship grow as they’d stood by each other in their darkest hours.

If only I could send him a note, let him know what has happened.
But he dared not. Inspector Ramsey, in particular, would be watching the doctor closely, no doubt monitoring his mail for just such a letter.

The article went on to suggest that the sole victim was none other than Hugo Effington, the warehouse owner and well-known bully.

Keats let out a frustrated sigh. Another avenue of enquiry dead. Literally. Effington’s many warehouses made likely hiding places for the stolen explosives. Although Nicci had probably known for sure, Keats hadn’t been willing to pay her price. Now she was dead as well, strangled by someone who had visited her later that very night. Nicci’s butler had testified at the inquest that her last visitor had been Keats, but it could have been any Transitive mimicking his form.

No one would believe that at that very moment he’d been squaring off with five Fenians, been knocked senseless, and then transported into the countryside packed in a coffin, of all things. It sounded absurd. If someone had told Keats such a yarn, he would have laughed heartily as he hauled the miscreant to the clink. Instead, it was his head on the block and his career in tatters.

Folding the paper, he tucked it under his arm with a frustrated sigh. “Ready?” he asked his companion.

Clancy Moran nodded, pushing his bulk away from the table. He had burly arms and a strong body, courtesy of years of work on the docks. His brown hair was unruly, sticking out from around his cap.

“Sounds like a bunch of hogs at the trough in here,” he remarked.

“Hey, watch your mouth!” someone growled.

Clancy glared at the offender, who paled and stammered an apology. Moran was not someone to be trifled with, and most of the dockworkers knew it.

“That’s better,” Clancy replied, sending the man’s hat spinning onto the floor. “Got no manners, do ya?” The fellow pulled on a weak grin and then tucked back into his food, sensing it was prudent to play the fool.

Clancy had told Keats there was a job for him, one that didn’t involve heavy lifting. Until his broken rib healed, that would be the only kind of task he could handle. Besides, Moran wasn’t going to let him get too far out of his sight. Not with the bargain they’d struck.

“What did you say I’d be doing?” Keats asked as soon as they were outside.

“Tallyin’ goods. Someone’s got to count all them barrels and such.”

“How’d you get
me
the job?” In the last few days, neither of them had been able to find much work. Suddenly, Clancy had them both employed.

“I called in a few favors. This place just lost a man.”

“Lost?” That didn’t sound right.

“He left Rotherhithe all of a sudden,” Clancy added, a mischief in his voice. “Truth be told, I had a kindly word in his ear.”

Keats groaned. It was clear: Clancy had threatened the clerk. The Fenians were respected in the docklands and few would cross them. Clancy Moran was one of them, but at the moment he was Keats’ protector. The lure of the sizable reward kept the big man at his side, at least until Keats could locate the explosives. Then he’d turn himself in and Clancy would get the reward money to start over. It was ironic: a copper being protected by the very sort of man he was sworn to arrest.

Noting his disapproval, Clancy added, “Stop grumblin’. It’s the best way I can keep an eye on ya. If someone else turns ya into the rozzers, they get the money. Remember, that’s our deal.”

“I know, but…”

In an effort to console himself, Keats’ thoughts drifted to the night before. His mind’s eye still lingered on the curve of Jacynda’s calves as she’d removed her boots in his room. He recalled the rising desire between them, the potential of energetic lovemaking, what would have been the final consummation of their ardent feelings for each other.

Then it had all gone wrong, so horribly wrong.

“Ya all right?” Clancy asked.

Keats nodded, not wanting to explain. Instead, he went in a new direction.

“The newspaper said that Hugo Effington was inside that warehouse that burned last night.”

Clancy raised a bushy eyebrow. “Hell ya say. Well, I won’t be sheddin’ no tears, that’s for sure. Nasty bastard. I heard he hit a foreman once, split his head right open with one blow. Poor fella didn’t die. Best if he had.”

“What had he done?” Keats asked.

“Asked about a wagon that came in the night before. He thought somethin’ was a bit dodgy about it. Effington hit him without a by-yer-leave.”

What was Effington so desperate to keep hidden?

Explosives.

“Do you know the fellow’s name?”

“Dillon, or something like that. Some said he’s not been right in the head ever since.” There was a hopeful pause. “Effington burn to death?”

Keats gave his companion a curious look. “No. The papers say he was knifed first, right in the heart.”

“Surprised they could find it,” Clancy remarked with a laugh. “Pity. A bastard like that needed a taste of hell afore he died.”

“The Devil wouldn’t want him. Too much competition.”

Clancy eyed him. “Yer a cynical one, aren’t ya?”

“Can’t be anything but,” Keats remarked. “You think we can find this Dillon, the one Effington hurt so badly?”

“Why?”

“He might know something about Flaherty.”

Clancy nodded. “I like how ya think. Come along, let’s have ya meet yer new boss. And don’t go chappin’ my ass if I don’t move fast enough to suit, ya hear? Those barrels are heavy.”

~••~••~••~

This day began like all the others: the grate of the bolt on the cell door, followed by the sound of metal bowls sliding across the stone floor. The food held no interest. Others would eat it.

She closed her eyes and returned to the wasteland of her mind. Little snippets of images and sound floated by, erratic clouds pushed by a light wind. A man’s face. He kept saying a word she couldn’t understand. Another face, warm and smiling. The smell of sheep. Something blue with legs.

Her head still throbbed, though the place near her temple was less sore now. She’d hoped that as the pain dulled, answers would come rushing back, that she would know who she was, what she was doing here. Wishful thinking. Asking her cellmates did little. One of them didn’t know her name. The other demanded her boots in payment for any answer.

She’d never been brave enough to ask any of the attendants. Most of them frightened her. If she admitted to them she didn’t know who she was, they’d never set her free.

If she could just remember her name. That would be a beginning. Once she knew her name, she could start to find the other missing pieces. There were so many of them.

What she’d discovered so far was of little comfort. The solid stone walls around her belonged to a mental asylum called Bedlam. Tormented shrieks rent the air at all hours. All mad people here, one of her cellmates had told her.

“Little miss?” a voice called.

She opened her eyes. One of the attendants, the nice older one, stood inside the door, his hands full of empty bowls.

“Did ya eat?”

She shook her head.

He sighed. “Ya got someone to see ya, missy.”

A woman entered the cell, then halted in front of her. The visitor knelt and peeled back the light veil she was wearing. Her eyes were hazel, and her hair brown, with some gray at the temples.