Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (25 page)

“Did he give you money?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“A shillin’. It got me a bed for a few nights.”

“He paid you a shilling for information? That’s quite generous. Are you sure it was only that?”

“Yes.”

“You have been arrested,” Arnett said, leafing through his notes, “three times for solicitation and once for stealing a loaf of bread.”

“I have, sir.”

“So you admit to being a woman on the wrong side of the law?”

Annie’s chin raised again, fire in her eyes. “If it comes to starvin’ or goin’ with a punter, I’ll do what I must to eat.”

“So offering your
services
to a police officer would allow you a chance to ply your trade unhindered, am I right?”

“No, it’s not like that. The rozzers don’t do that.”

“Why not? Who would you complain to?” Arnett pressed.

“They don’t do that,” Annie repeated.

“So you are saying that the prisoner has never once offered to pay you for sexual favors or to trade those favors for a blind eye?”

Keats’ gut knotted.
He’s making me sound like a moral degenerate.

“He’s not like that!” the witness retorted, glaring at the barrister. “Never has been.”

That’s it Annie! Give him one on the shins.

“Have you heard that he’s ever made such an offer to any of the other unfortunates?”

“No,” Annie replied. “He’s just good with us. He gives us money, tells us to get to a doss house so Old Jack won’t find us.”

“How eminently philanthropic,” Arnett replied sarcastically. “At what time did you speak with the prisoner?”

The high color in Annie’s cheeks faded. “I’m not sure. I think it was going on ten.”

“Could it have been earlier than ten?” Arnett pushed.

“Maybe. The last time I remember, it was just after eight. I’d had a bit of supper and was walking toward Gunthorpe Street. I went into the pub for a time.”

“So you cannot say with any certainty that you saw the prisoner at ten that evening.”

“No, sir. But he didn’t do it. He’s not that kind.”

“That will be all, Miss Crickland.”

Wescomb rose. “I have no questions of this witness.”

The woman slowly made her way back to where she’d been sitting amongst the other witnesses. From the expression on her face, Keats could tell she felt she’d let him down.

Sorry I got you into this, Annie.

2057 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

Cynda had just added the extra moat when the bald man reappeared, beckoning to her. “Will this hurt?” she asked, edgy.

“No.” Dr. Weber pulled a small device out of his pocket. “I will place this on your arm, and you will feel a slight tingle.”

“Is that all?” A nod. “Why do I have to have it?”

“It will make you calmer.”

Cynda frowned. She felt calm enough, at least when
he
wasn’t around.

“Roll up your sleeve and let’s get this done.”

She did as he asked, and felt the pressure on her arm. As he’d said, there was a slight tingle.

“I will come back tomorrow and administer another dose. In time, we’ll switch to a chip that will deliver the medication.”

“What’s a chip?” she asked.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he responded breezily as he packed away his things.

Cynda never liked it when they told her that. “Can I go now?” she asked, wanting to get back to her castle.

“No, just stand here for a minute or two. I want to make sure there is no reaction.”

“How do you know if it’s not okay?” she asked.

“Hmm? Oh, it will be,” he replied dismissively.

As she waited, she stared at her arm. It didn’t look any different.

“Will it turn colors?” she asked.

“No.”

She began to feel warm. Too warm, like someone was holding her arm over a fire. “Is it supposed to be hot?”

The bald man ignored her, tapping on that little tablet of his. Click. Click. Click.

Tiny ants began a march up her forearm. They felt like they were on fire. More of them now.

“It’s getting very hot,” she said.

“It’s just your imagination.” Click…click…

The long trail of ants coursed up her shoulder, encircling her neck. She wiped some sweat off her forehead. Her heart pounded and her stomach turned over. And over.

Click…click…click...

The sound grated on her. “Don’t do that.”

The bald man looked up. “I must make notes about your treatment.”

The clicking noise continued, digging into her flesh like glittering knives. She tried to hum to cover the sound, but it didn’t work.

Click…click…click…

The ants were in her chest and head now. Whole caravans of them, streaming fiery trails of fury behind them.

She took a step forward. “I said don’t do that!”

“Oh, do be quiet!” he snapped. “I can’t make notes if you’re talking the whole time.”

CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK

“Stop it!” She pulled the device out of his hands and slung it away. It arced high in the air, then gravity kicked in and it plummeted to the ground. Skidding in a shower of sparks along the walkway, it impacted a wall, disintegrating into dozens of expensive pieces.

“What the hell—” Weber began.

Her clenched fist hit his jaw a second later.

“She just hit me,” the psychiatrist gurgled around the compress on his bloody mouth. “I gave her the medication and then she hit me.”

“I told you she didn’t want it,” Morrisey grumbled. He gave Fulham a quizzical look.

His assistant leaned close and whispered, “The physician had to give her a sedative. He suspects it was a reaction to the medication, that it put her into a blind rage. He anticipates that she will return to her mellow self in a few days.”

“I’ve never seen one like that,” Weber muttered. Dabbing at his jaw, he winced. “Inverse reaction. Very rare.” Then he brightened. “This will make a great research paper.”

Morrisey’s patience fled. “Fulham, get this insufferable bastard out of here, will you?”

“With considerable pleasure,” his assistant replied.

Weber puffed up. “I refuse to come back. I don’t want to be anywhere near that mad woman again.”

Perfect.

~••~••~••~

Thursday, 1 November, 1888

Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)

As Alastair waited in the witness box, memories threatened to overwhelm him. The last time he’d been called to testify was at Marda’s inquest, to explain why he’d killed a man. This time, the life of his closest friend lay in the balance.

He’d slept little the night before, fretting over what sorts of questions he would face. Arnett had clearly impugned his honor during yesterday’s session, and he knew the prosecutor would continue that onslaught today.

After the oath, Arnett opened with the question the doctor had anticipated.

“How long have you been involved in forensics, Dr. Montrose?”

“Only a very short time.”

“A month…a fortnight?”

“I officially began working with Dr. Bishop on the fourteenth of this month
after
the Hallcox post-mortem.”

“Ah, so you are a fledgling. Do you enjoy the work?”

Enjoy?
Alastair cocked his head. “I find it…rewarding.”

“Why did you decide to take up this profession?”

“It is a fascinating one, and Dr. Bishop is an excellent teacher. I feel it holds great promise.”

“I understand that you are a close personal friend of the prisoner.”

“Yes.”

“Did you not believe it a conflict of interest to assist at the victim’s post-mortem, knowing that your close friend was a suspect?”

“On the contrary, I did not know Keats was involved in the case. We were not told that until the following morning.”

“Come now, the prisoner is your best friend. Surely you would have known—”

“No, I did not.” Alastair fought to keep his anger in check. Wescomb had warned him that if he lost his temper, Keats would suffer.

“You are under oath, Doctor,” Arnett replied.

“I swear I did not know until
after
we delivered the post-mortem report.”

“Is it not true that
you
were once in court regarding the murder of a man in Wales?”

Here it comes.
Alastair forced any reaction from his face, though his gut somersaulted. “I testified at an inquest, yes.”

“Why were you in the witness box?” Arnett challenged. “Was it because you were the cause of a man’s death?”

“I must object, my lord,” Wescomb interjected. “Dr. Montrose’s personal history is of no import in this case. He does not sit in the dock for Miss Hallcox’s murder.”

“No, but he might feel inadvertent sympathy for his friend, having once faced the rope in Wales,” Arnett countered.

“I must agree,” Hawkins intoned. “Answer the question, Dr. Montrose.”

Alastair took a deep breath. “I was summoned to testify regarding the events surrounding the death of the woman I loved, and the man who murdered her.”

Gasps came from the courtroom.

“I have no further questions to put to this witness at this time, your lordship,” Arnett concluded smugly.

Wescomb rose. “Just to clear the air, what were the findings from that inquest in Wales?”

“That my actions were in self-defence,” Alastair replied.

“Thank you. Since Mr. Arnett has brought up the subject, did that experience in Wales give you particular sympathy for Sergeant Keats?”

“Yes. I also know what it is like to be falsely accused.”

Murmurs flew through the courtroom. Alastair allowed himself to relax. Arnett’s ploy had failed.

Lord Wescomb shifted directions. “Did you treat Sergeant Keats after his injury at the hands of a Fenian anarchist?”

“Yes.”

“How serious were those injuries?”

“Quite serious. He had a severe scalp laceration, a concussion, and a broken rib.”

“How was his recuperation progressing at the time of the murder?”

“He was improving, though still unsteady on his feet and easily fatigued. I recommended rest.”

“In your professional opinion, would Sergeant Keats have the strength to strangle a woman in his debilitated condition?”

“It would be extremely difficult, given the broken rib.”

“Even if he employed the sash from her robe?”

“It still would be very difficult.”

Wescomb paused to let that settle in the jury’s mind. “Is it true that you conducted further forensic studies in an effort to determine the height of the murderer, Doctor?”

“Yes, based on post-mortem evidence.” Alastair looked up at the judge, his heart in his throat. “If a demonstration is permitted, my lord?”

Hawkins took his time with the answer. “Providing it is in good taste.”

“It shall be, my lord. I would ask that my assistant join me at the front of the room.”

“I shall permit it.”

A figure rose and made her way forward, accompanied by whispers in the audience. The judge banged the noise back into silence.

“Who is this woman, Dr. Montrose?” he asked.

“This is Mrs. Butler, my housekeeper. She is of similar height to the deceased, my lord, and so will serve in Miss Hallcox’s stead during the demonstration.”

“I see. Pray, do not be theatrical about this.”

“In no way, my lord.”

With a nod from Alastair, Mrs. Butler turned her back to him. “Miss Hallcox,” he explained in a clear voice, “stood five feet, four and three-quarter inches tall without footwear, as she was at the time she was murdered. As Dr. Bishop has indicated, she was strangled from the rear. At this point, I ask Mr. Kingsbury to join us. Mr. Kingsbury is five feet six and one-half inches, which is very close to the prisoner’s height and will serve as a model for this demonstration.”

“I thought that Metropolitan police regulations required their policemen be at least five feet nine,” Wescomb said, feeding him the objection.

“In that regard, Sergeant Keats is a notable exception. I am quoting his height directly from police records. I also verified it this morning in the presence of the prison warder.”

There was murmuring as Wescomb’s assistant came forward. Alastair handed him the sash and Kingsbury positioned it on Mrs. Butler’s neck.

“You will note,” Alastair remarked, pointing to the tableau, “that the angle of the sash is nearly parallel.” He gave a nod and Kingsbury lightly tightened the fabric. Through it all, Mrs. Butler maintained a neutral expression as Alastair had instructed her, hands at her sides. He was quite proud of her performance.

The doctor gestured. The assistant removed the sash and handed it to him. “The ligature marks found on Miss Hallcox’s neck were not parallel, as would be expected of a man of Sergeant Keats’ stature,” he explained, stepping up behind Mrs. Butler. Repositioning the sash, he tightened it carefully. “During the post-mortem, we noted that the ligature marks on the back of her neck were not level, but rose, corresponding to someone approximately five feet nine, as I am.”