Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (41 page)

He would have placed a kiss on her cheek when he bid her farewell at the hotel, but the veil was in the way again. A squeeze of her shoulder sufficed. As he climbed back into the hansom, calling out his address, he felt that odd sensation.

Their watcher had followed them.

~••~••~••~

The Lord Chief Justice’s chambers were more crowded than was comfortable. Extra chairs had been brought in, but still it was chock-a-block.

Fisher chose a seat away from the fire, knowing the room would get toasty soon enough. Ramsey sat next to him, the heavy bags under his eyes bearing witness to his lost sleep. Next to the inspector sat Kingsbury, appearing equally worn.

Fisher willed himself to relax. It failed. His nerves had been in a tangle since the moment a reporter had barreled out of the prison shouting the news.

A stay of execution.
He had almost wept on the spot.

Ramsey lightly touched his sleeve. “It’s truly a second chance, sir,” the inspector murmured. “We can set this right.”

“That is my prayer.”

On the other side of the room, Justice Hawkins was settling in, as was Arnett and two men he did not know.

“Who are they?” he asked Kingsbury.

“The one on the right is from Home Office, the other no less than an emissary from His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.”

“There does not seem to be goodwill between them,” Fisher observed.

“No, there isn’t,” Kingsbury replied. “Home Office is taking a hiding in the papers. I gather the Queen is quite distressed by this whole disaster. Home Office has tried to shift the blame to Warren, but it’s not working as well as they’d hoped.” Kingsbury looked up. “Ah, here he is.”

They all rose in respect as Baron Coleridge, the Lord Chief Justice, entered his chambers.

“Do be seated,” he said, looking around the room as he sat behind his desk. He glanced down at a list of names his clerk had given him upon his entry.

“Which of you is the representative from Home Office?”

A thin man with a bristly moustache rose and gave a slight bow. “I am, your lordship.”

“I note His Royal Highness has an emissary here, as well. That is most unusual.”

Another man rose. “It is His Royal Highness’ opinion that this is a most unusual case, your lordship.”

“So it appears.” Coleridge studied the list for a bit longer. “Chief Inspector Fisher and Inspector Ramsey?”

“Just here, your lordship,” Fisher replied.

“Mr. Kingsbury?”

The junior barrister stood. “Chief Justice. Lord Wescomb asked me to send his regrets. The events at Newgate this morning have compromised his recovery and he has returned to his bed.”

“I’m truly sorry to hear that,” the man replied, setting the list aside. “I see the Crown Prosecutor is here, as well. Excellent. We shall proceed.”

There was a tap at the door and a clerk hurried in. He bent close to Fisher and handed him an envelope. The chief inspector ripped it open.

Is there no bottom to this dark pit?

He handed it to his subordinate.

As Ramsey read the contents, his hands began a fine tremor. “My God…” he whispered.

Before Fisher could reply, Coleridge began. “Mr. Kingsbury, state your position as clearly and succinctly as possible.”

The junior barrister rose. “Thank you, Chief Justice. We have secured a stay of execution based on compelling new evidence that proves Sergeant Keats is innocent of the murder of Nicola Hallcox.”

“What is the nature of this evidence?”

“Two Fenians have come forward, my lord, and have sworn that they were present with Sergeant Keats in Whitechapel during the time that Miss Hallcox met her end. Mr. Paddy O’Donnell is willing to testify that he struck the sergeant, placed him inside a coffin, and transported him out of the city. The other witness, Mr. Desmond Flaherty, has signed a statement indicating his presence with the sergeant that very evening.”

The Lord Chief Justice leaned forward in his chair. “Fenians? Consider me stunned, sir.”

“As was I, your lordship,” Kingsbury said. “It was most unexpected.”

Justice Hawkins sighed. “I should be surprised at nothing when it comes to this case.”

“In addition, my Lord Chief Justice, we have a witness who has testified that she saw the sergeant in Whitechapel at forty past ten that evening. She stated he was walking on the very street that would lead to his confrontation with the Fenians.”

“Why did this witness not come forward earlier?” Coleridge asked, frowning.

“She was concerned about her safety, my lord. She is Irish, you see, and did not wish to incur the wrath of the anarchists.” Kingsbury shuffled the papers in his hand. “As for physical evidence, Inspector Ramsey has located the coffin. There are marks on the lid that match perfectly the sole of one of the sergeant’s boots. In addition, Inspector Ramsey has obtained the sergeant’s notebook, which was found in the alley where Keats said he was set upon by the Fenians.”

“Who found the notebook in the first place?” Coleridge asked.

Kingsbury looked toward Ramsey, who rose.

“Inspector Hulme passed it onto me, my lord,” Ramsey said.

“When?”

“Just this morning.”

Coleridge sported a frown. “How long has it been in his possession?”

“Since the twenty-sixth of October.”

“Good heavens. Why did he not enter it into evidence at the trial?” Coleridge’s frown deepened. “We must have this man explain why he did not do his duty.”

Fisher rose. “That will not be possible, my lord.” He indicated the message he’d received. “I have been informed that Inspector Hulme was found dead of a gunshot wound about an hour ago, in his rooms. It is surmised that he took his own life.”

Coleridge sank back in his chair. “This has to be the most remarkable case I have seen in all my years in Her Majesty’s service.” He eyed Arnett. “What has the Crown to say of this new evidence?”

“I am taken aback at the news of the inspector’s death, my lord. I was not aware that he held the prisoner’s notebook in his possession, and can give no possible reason why he would have done so.” He turned toward Fisher. “As to the Fenians and this new witness, what manner of compensation have these people been promised for their testimony?”

“None,” the chief inspector replied.

Arnett huffed. “I find that unlikely given Flaherty’s animosity for the constabulary.”

Before Fisher could reply, Kingsbury interjected, “Well, there was one offer, if you may call it that.”

Arnett pounced. “What was it?”

“Lord Wescomb has offered to represent Mr. O’Donnell when he comes to trial,” Kingsbury replied innocently.

Arnett scowled.

“With no disrespect meant to his lordship, that is hardly an incentive to offer testimony in this case,” Coleridge replied.

The Chief Justice swiveled toward the Home Office representative. “I must put a question for you, sir. Where I understand the need not to ruin the reputations of the men who unwisely availed themselves of the victim’s services, I do not comprehend the other interdiction. Why did you enjoin both the defence
and
prosecution from speaking of the stolen explosives?”

The Home Office mouthpiece spoke up. “It was to prevent panic, my lord. The citizenry would be overly frightened. They are not equipped to handle such disturbing news.”

To Fisher’s astonishment, Ramsey rose again. “I disagree. The public is a lot smarter than you give them credit for. Besides, it’s already common knowledge in the East End.”

“You misunderstand me, Inspector,” the Home Office representative replied smoothly. “Our concern was for the people
who matter.
”

Before Ramsey could burst out in fury, Fisher gave a quick tug on his sleeve. The inspector grudgingly returned to his seat.

“Self-righteous bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

“Careful, Martin. They will be your masters soon enough.”

“That may be true, but I’ll be biting them on the ankles as often as I can, that I promise.”

No doubt you will.

The prince’s spokesman cleared his throat. “Contrary to what my colleague in Home Office says, both His Royal Highness and Her Majesty hold deep regard for all our citizens, be they lesser or greater. The prince, in particular, has been dismayed at how this trial has brought turmoil to Scotland Yard, especially at a time when they have a myriad of other more important matters to attend to, including the safety of Her Majesty.”

It was a strong rebuke delivered in velvet tones. The Home Office man fell silent, his arms crossed in sullen displeasure.

Coleridge nodded his approval. “Very well, Mr. Kingsbury, bring me your new evidence. The Crown Prosecutor may file objections as he chooses, then I shall weigh as to whether the convicted man deserves to be set free or make a second and final journey to the hangman.”

“My lord, we hope that you might make that decision as promptly as possible. This whole ordeal has been incredibly difficult for the sergeant.”

“No doubt. Just send me your evidence, sir. I will give it due consideration as my schedule permits.”

“As your lordship pleases,” Kingsbury said.

In the hallway outside the chambers, Ramsey whispered, “Surely they can’t have the fix in all the way to—” he gestured with his head toward the closed door.

“Let’s pray the rot hasn’t risen that high,” Fisher replied.“If so, this mighty empire is foundering on the rocks.”

Upon her return, Cynda found Morrisey awake, reading a newspaper. At his elbow was a cup of tea. The furniture had been moved to create an open space, suggesting he’d practiced his Tai Chi during her absence. Much like a chameleon, he was rapidly adapting to his surroundings. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

He studied her clothes with a critical eye. “Is that what is required for an inquest?”

“No. Just trying to be invisible. Not everyone knows my brain is back from vacation, and I’d like to leave it that way.” The hat and veil came off immediately, followed by the mantelet. “That’s better. I can actually see.”

She stepped inside her bedroom and closed the door. A rummage in the wardrobe produced her old costume, all patched and faded. Waltzing through the front lobby looking like a beggar would invite problems. She’d have to slip out some side door. The spare room at Pratchett’s Book Shop would have been an ideal solution, but she had to admit she liked a hot bath every now and then.

“How’s your time lag?” she called out, pulling on the worn skirt.

“Better. I had a long nap and some tea.”

“Excellent.”
Not as good as sex, but it works.

“I gather you’re changing clothes,” he called back. “Do I need to do the same?”

“Yes. We’re headed for the East End. Dress downmarket. We got away with what we were wearing this morning, but at night it’s best to blend in.”

She heard noises from the sitting room. “Luckily, I brought something appropriate,” she heard him say. “I gather the garments can have lice or fleas in them if you buy them secondhand here.”

“He did read the run reports,” Mr. Spider announced. “Sobering thought.”

Morrisey would remember
all
those details. She just remembered most of them.

Cynda heard him open his pasteboard suitcase. His boots hit the floor with two pronounced thumps.

“I met up with Alastair Montrose at the inquest,” she reported.

“Oh.” Then silence.

“Morrisey?”

More silence.

“Hello, boss?”

“One moment. I’m still dressing.” Now that was
so
Victorian.

Oh, she was enjoying this. How many Rovers got to mess with the Genius? “The first time you were here, you saw me in a bathtub. Why can’t I see you in your underwear?”

“Because this Victorian underwear is embarrassing,” he groused. “All right, I’m decent.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped out, still buttoning her bodice. He was tugging on his boots. Other than his clean-shaven face, he could easily be mistaken for some loser in the East End. The clothes were perfect.

Then she remembered his special ability. “Why don’t you go
en mirage
? It’d be easier.”

“This takes less concentration.”

“Which means you don’t shift often,” she replied.

He seemed surprised at her knowledge. “No, I don’t,” he said. “No real point.” He mussed up his hair and stuck on the slouch cap. He looked disreputable. “Stop fretting. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Well, that’s at least one of you,” Mr. Spider said, peering into her boss’ luggage. He jumped out of the way as Morrisey snapped it shut and stashed it by the couch. “Tidy, isn’t he?”

Overly.

They retraced some of their route through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. While Morrisey was methodically cataloguing streets and sights, she was listening to the ebb and flow of conversations.

“The smell is so strong here,” he remarked, his nose wrinkling in spite of himself. “I knew it would be bad, but…” Just then, his attention was drawn to a constable standing on the other side of the street.