Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (23 page)

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.

When she grew tired of the game, she headed for the sand. Dropping to her knees, she started moving it around, trying to decide what she wanted to build.

Then he came, the bald man called Weber. He started asking silly questions. She glared, but he didn’t leave. Even the one named Ralph knew better than that.

“Why are you doing that?” Weber asked, typing his notes into his machine again.

“Because it’s fun,” she replied, pushing sand around.

“Why do you think that?”

She frowned. “Because it is.”

Cynda scooped a huge handful and then formed one of the four towers, adding the little impressions at the top with her pinkie. She tried to remember what they were called, but couldn’t come up with the word. She just knew they had to be there.

“What are these called?” she asked, pointing at one of them.

“I have no idea.”

Then go away.
She created the second tower, repeating the little impressions.

“Miss Lassiter?”

“What?” she grumbled.

“You are too ill to be here. You need treatment. You’re not going to get better building castles in the sand. ”

Castle?
She smiled.
So that’s what it is.

She started work on the third tower. There was another series of beeps from the bald man’s machine, then he walked off.

Good.

She eyed the thing she’d been building. Castle. “Still not right.” She needed one of those water things that went around the outside. She hiked to the black box and asked the question.

“Water thing. Around a…a…castle. What is it?”

“Moat,” it replied.

That was it. She needed a moat.

“Miss Lassiter?” Morrisey was on the walkway. She could tell by his face that something wasn’t right. He removed his shoes and joined her, kneeling in the sand.

“Very nice,” he remarked, his voice even softer than usual.

“I like it.” She pointed up at the pagoda’s roof. “I built it for them.”

“That’s kind of you.”

She stared at him. “What’s wrong?”

“A judge has decided that I do not have the right to keep you from receiving treatment for your Adrenalin Reactive Disorder.”

“What’s Adren...”

“It means you have a tendency to be more violent than the rest of us.”

“I haven’t hurt anyone,” she told him. At least not that she could remember.

“No, you haven’t, but they think you might. The judge is allowing you to stay here, but he did order you to receive the treatment.” He looked away. “I’m so very sorry.”

Cynda wasn’t sure what it all meant, but it seemed to hurt him. The lines on his face were deeper now.

She panicked. “Will it make me worse?”

“I don’t know.”

That was honest. “If it does, I won’t do it anymore.” She pointed. “Do you think I should have another…ah….ah…mmm…water thing over here?”

The question pulled him out of his dark thoughts. “Yes, I think you do. The castles I’ve seen had moats on most of the exposed sides.”

Moat.
She kept forgetting that word. “You’ve seen them for real?” she asked in wonder.

“Yes. So have you, or you wouldn’t have made this so accurately.”

“Maybe I have. I just don’t remember.” She pointed at the top of the turret. “What are these called?”

“Crenellations. They allow an archer to fire down upon an enemy.”

“What’s an archer?”

“Someone with a bow and arrow.”

“Do you know everything?” she asked, cocking her head.

“No, unfortunately I don’t.” He sighed and rose. “I will let them know you will accept the treatment.”

“Only if I can stay here,” she insisted.

A nod. He plodded off, shoulders bent under some invisible weight.

Thursday, 1 November, 1888

Scotland Yard

Fisher looked up as the door opened. “Thank you for coming in early, Inspector.” Ramsey heaved his bulk into the chair and then yawned.

“What’s going on, sir?”

“In a moment. First, what do you think of the trial so far?” Fisher quizzed.

“Well, if I ever need a barrister, Wescomb’s the man. He’s sharp and he knows how to play to the jury.”

“True.” Fisher watched his subordinate shift his weight in the chair for the third time. “What’s troubling you?”

“To be blunt, sir, Inspector Hulme. He’s not doing a proper job of this. He didn’t seem to care a lick when I told him about the boots. It’s like it didn’t matter at all.”

“I agree, it’s quite odd,” Fisher replied.

“It’s more than odd, sir. Anderson and I talked to every single bloody
coffin maker in Whitechapel. Only one said Hulme had been to see him. From what I hear, he spent his time in the pub in Ingatestone rather than conducting his investigation.”

Fisher frowned. “He’s had a tolerably good record up to this point. Nothing outstanding, mind you, but solid work.”

“I’ve heard the same,” Ramsey concurred. “I keep asking myself why he’d bugger this up so badly. Hulme could look right smart in your eyes, maybe land a job here in the Yard. Instead, he’s made a royal cock-up of it.”

Fisher opened a desk drawer and extracted a sheet of paper. “I suspect it might have something to do with this.” He handed over the sheet. “This is the list of men who left their calling cards at Miss Hallcox’s residence. The dates are when we believe they partook of her
custom
. She may well have been blackmailing all of them.”

Ramsey studied the list, then whistled. “There’s a load of toffs here.”

“That’s my point. Important people know how to pull strings. It’s how you remain important.”

“This didn’t come out in the inquest.”

“We were not allowed to mention it. Find me the truth, Ramsey. I’ll live with it either way.”

Ramsey returned the list.

Ramsey’s eyes raised, then he frowned. “Why not us?”

Fisher stroked his moustache. “That’s why I called you in. I was summoned to Warren’s office last night. A complaint has been lodged at the highest level. He’s not happy about it either, truth be told.”

“What sort of complaint?”

“About your sterling work on behalf of the sergeant. I have been instructed that there is to be no further effort on any matter related to the Hallcox case. It is Hulme’s kettle of fish, so I’ve been told.”

Ramsey glowered. “So let me make sure I’ve got this.” He paused, his face turning ruddy. “You’re saying that some posh gent who doesn’t know his arse from his ears is telling me not to do my damned job?”

“That’s pretty much it.”

Ramsey dropped the list on the desk and spread his hands. “Why should I fight them? I’ve got the best pony in the race, don’t I? I play along, Keats’ll hang, and I’ll be sitting pretty, won’t I? He’ll be out of the way and someday your desk will be mine, along with the title and the pay packet.”

His face went dark as he leaned over and jammed a thick finger at his superior. “No one—not Hulme, Warren or the Queen herself—tells me not to be a copper. If I have to do this under the table, then I will. You understand me?”

Fisher blinked rapidly, unaccustomed to Ramsey’s rebellious streak. “As far as I am concerned, Inspector, you are pursuing Desmond Flaherty and the explosives. I will expect your reports to reflect that, no matter your
actual
activities.”

Ramsey smiled grimly. “I knew you’d see it my way, sir.”

“Please take care, Martin. Your future at the Yard is at stake.”

Ramsey’s fury dampened. “I know, sir. If Warren’s pulling back on your reins, I wonder how high this goes.”

Fisher tapped the list where it sat on his desk.

“Assume it goes all the way to the top.”

~••~••~••~

Keats studied the man who had put him in the dock. There wasn’t much to be said about Nicci’s butler: middle-aged, eyes glassy, hands with a fine tremor. An alcoholic devoted to his debauched mistress. He might feel sympathy for the fellow if the tables had been turned.

Arnett started right in. “Mr. Landis, how long had you been in the employ of Miss Hallcox?”

“Um, ah, a little over a year, sir,” Landis replied, his voice like gravel.

“Enjoyed your service, did you?”

“It had its good points,” the butler allowed.

Her liquor cabinet, for one.

“Was she a fair employer?”

“Yes, as they go.”

“Paid you well?” Arnett asked.

“Yes.”

“As Lord Wescomb has pointed out, apparently she was very
social.
”

The butler’s face turned crimson. “Yes,” he affirmed tersely. Keats leaned forward in the dock, watching the man intently.

“The Friday evening before her murder, Miss Hallcox hosted a party.”

The butler shifted his position in the witness box, uncomfortable. “Yes.”

“What was the nature of that soiree?”

“Umm…a costume party, sir.”

“Everyone was in costume?”

“Yes.”

Costume?
Hardly. That’s not the way Keats remembered it. Dryads and queens, satyrs and other mythological beasts all cheerfully ravaging each other in a haze of opium and too much alcohol. It was a nightmare he would never forget.