Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (49 page)

She heard Alastair murmur, “My God. So many dead.”

“I see Newgate Prison survives,” Keats observed sardonically. “How fitting.” Pages rustled as he began to count the circles on the map. “Nineteen explosions?”

Theo’s groggy voice came from the bedroom doorway, “They use a half-barrel of gunpowder, three sticks of dynamite.” He was haphazardly tucking in his shirt, oblivious to the startled expressions from their visitors.

“Go back to bed,” Cynda ordered. “You need your rest.”

“Just make the introductions,” he retorted, running a hand through his hair in an effort to tidy himself.

She opened her mouth to argue, but decided against it. “This is Dr. Alastair Montrose,” she announced, “and Detective-Sergeant Jonathon Keats.” She angled a thumb in Theo’s direction. “Gentlemen, this is T.E. Morrisey, my boss, and the man who made time travel possible.”

“I am honored, sir,” Alastair said, stepping forward. “I must admit to being in awe of your accomplishments.”

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Morrisey,” Keats replied tersely, keen to get past the pleasantries. “What else can you tell us about these devices?”

“I did not find a triggering mechanism, so they must light them by hand,” Theo replied. “Nevertheless, all of the explosions are at precisely-timed intervals.”

“How do they accomplish that?” Keats asked.

“I am not sure.”

And that’s driving you nuts.

“The newspapers say that the dockland bombs were all in warehouses owned by Hugo Effington,” Cynda reported. “That should narrow it down a bit.”

“Still, we’ll have to go through them all one by one,” Keats muttered. “It will take considerable time.” He scrutinized Theo. “Who do you believe is behind this plot, sir?”

“The Ascendant,” Morrisey said. “It’s why he had Adelaide Winston murdered, to buy himself time. As Intermediary, she was pushing for his replacement.”

“How in heaven’s name do you know—” Keats began.

“I’m one of you.”

The two Victorians traded looks.

“Hezekiah Grant is your leader at present. Do either of you know him?” The two men shook their heads. “I’m not surprised. He seems to have led a nondescript life,” Theo said.

Cynda scowled. “Not very nondescript when he orders people killed right and left.”

“That wasn’t in his original timeline,” Theo explained. “Something has happened to him.”

“Or someone,” she mused. “I keep wondering where Copeland is in all this. It’s not like the old military jock to be out of the picture for very long.”

“Who?” Alastair asked.

“Someone from our time,” Theo answered. His tone said he wasn’t willing to say more.

“He’s not one of the good guys,” Cynda explained.

Keats shifted the top map aside, staring hard at the one indicating the primary detonation sites. “Destruction of this magnitude will disrupt Parliament, even the Royals. In catastrophe, there is always an opportunity for assassination.” He looked up. “We have to inform the chief inspector. He must take precautions to secure the city and protect the Royal Family.”

“He’s not going to believe Jacynda is from the future,” Alastair protested.

“Just tell him I have inside information,” Cynda advised. “He might think Pinkerton’s has better sources than the Yard.”

“Then let’s hope he’s in a receptive frame of mind. He was very dismayed this morning when I suggested
we
might be involved. Now I have to tell him just how bad it can get.”

“Take the first map, not the second,” Theo said. “Hint at the level of destruction. That’s all he can know.”

Keats nodded, rolling up the appropriate document and tucking it under his arm.

“We’ll handle the bombs in the East End,” Morrisey insisted. “You just concentrate on those in Rotherhithe.”

Keats shook his head. “Fisher will
not
approve of your involvement.”

“He does not have a choice.”

The sergeant’s eyebrow rose. “You are the visitor here, sir. Just because you’re Jacynda’s superior does not mean I trust you.”

Before this degenerated any further, Cynda jumped in, “He’s one of the reasons you’re alive, Keats. If he hadn’t helped me rebuild my brain, you’d be six feet under right now.”

Keats tugged on his collar without realizing it. “You vouch for him, then?”

“Without reservation.”

“I see.” He thought for a moment, then dug in his trouser pocket, sorting through a handful of coins. He selected one in particular.

“Flaherty divided up the explosives between different warehouses in Wapping and Rotherhithe,” Keats explained. “After he was done, someone else moved them, without his knowledge.” The sergeant held a coin. “I found this in one of those empty warehouses, under some gunpowder. Perhaps you can tell me what this is.”

The coin spiraled into the air, and Cynda caught it. “Looks like sixpence.”

Theo took it from her. “No. In this time period, England’s sixpence coins are silver. This is…”

“What?” Keats asked eagerly.

“Not silver,” Theo replied. He shifted the coin around with a finger. “I’ll run some tests. It may just be a crude forgery attempt.”

Alastair cut in. “I understand some of what you do, sir, but why involve yourself so deeply in our time? Why take the risk?”

“Because we
all
have something to lose,” Theo replied. “If history changes, it ripples forward. The world we know will be altered forever.”

Cynda watched the two Victorians come to grips with that.

“At least you’ve given us a chance,” Alastair said.

“Only one,” Theo replied. He gestured toward the second map. “If we fail, that’s our legacy.”

~••~••~••~

Behind them, a clock struck eight in Fisher’s private study. The chief inspector drummed his fingers on the desktop. In Keats’ experience, that was an indication of considerable mental turmoil. He gave Alastair a worried look.

Fisher leaned toward them. “How could Miss Lassiter possess this amount of detail unless she is involved in the plot?”

“She is not an anarchist, sir,” Keats insisted. “She just has contacts that are very free with their knowledge.”

Fisher’s brows furrowed. The finger drumming continued, increasing in tempo. “You wish me to go to the police commissioner and inform him that we have uncovered a conspiracy to incinerate most of London, and that all the evidence we have is based solely upon a woman who has recently had a mental collapse?”

“Yes,” Alastair replied without hesitation.

Fisher’s frown deepened. “Yet you say Flaherty has no part in this, which leaves
your
people as the prime suspects.”

“Yes, sir,” Keats admitted.

The chief inspector tapped the map that lay in front of him. “Why so many explosions?”

“With a firestorm at their backs, the displaced will have few places to head but west, toward their richer neighbors. Anarchy will be the result.”

Fisher began to tap his tented fingers together. A decision was imminent.

“I am of two minds on this, but I dare not risk the city. I shall present this to Sir Charles. I question whether he will believe me, especially if he finds
you’re
involved, Sergeant.”

Which is why I have no future at the Yard.

“While you are doing that, sir, I would like to go to Rotherhithe, see what I can learn there. Jacynda’s source was very vague about the placement of the explosives in that area. I will need help to find them.”

“How many constables will you require?”

“To tell you the truth, I believe Fenians would be better.”

“Fenians?” Fisher exclaimed.

“I know it sounds outrageous, but they have as much to lose as anyone. They will be blamed for this, even if the plot proves to be of a different nature.”

“It would be better if you use constables,” Fisher advised.

“On the contrary,” Keats countered, “the dockworkers will be able to move through the warehouses more quickly, as well as spot anything that looks out of place.”

“Well then, I shall trust your judgement, but keep some constables at the ready in case of trouble, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I will make arrangements to handle the bombs in the East End. If Miss Lassiter and her companions wish to assist, then fine, but
we
are in charge of this operation.”

“Yes, sir,” Keats confirmed with a nod.

Fisher turned to the doctor. “I’d like you to come with me. Your sincerity may tilt the police commissioner into believing this incredible tale. After all, you know Miss Lassiter’s reputation better than I.”

Alastair barely hid his surprise. “As you wish, Chief Inspector.”

“Speaking of which, where is she?” Fisher asked. “Why did she not come with you?”

“Marshalling aid of her own, I believe,” Alastair replied.

The chief inspector snorted. “At least it won’t be just us in the soup if this goes wrong.”

~••~••~••~

Retrieving his belongings from Mrs. O’Neill’s boarding house had fallen out like Keats had anticipated. The Rotherhithe landlady swore at him for being a rozzer, then handed over his personal effects. He’d left her the extra tobacco in gratitude for not making the ordeal any harder than it was.

As he walked away, Keats stuck his spare pipe and the list of warehouses in a pocket and discarded the rest. He had no need for the theatrical makeup Jacynda had given him. No need to run from the law any longer.

Nevertheless, there were times when he could still feel the chains on his wrists, hear them dragging across the ground as he moved. Still feel the cap being pulled down over his face. Someone had willingly tossed him to the executioner. Someone who had much to hide. When this was over, he would begin his own hunt.

He wandered around Rotherhithe until he found an unoccupied set of stairs leading to the Thames. There, he sat and studied Jacynda’s list. Effington had owned a number of warehouses. Fifteen, to be exact.

He heard the sound of boots behind him. “Good evening, Clancy.”

The Irishman hesitated. “How’d ya know it was me?”

“You’ve been following me ever since the boarding house.”

Clancy laughed. “Yer smarter than ya look.”

“Some days.”

The large man descended the stairs and sat next to him. “Good to see yer alive. Close one, that.”

“Very.” Keats tugged on his collar again to loosen it. He could no longer stand anything tight around his neck.

“Ya owe me that reward,” Clancy said.

“You didn’t turn me in,” Keats replied, sensing no anger in the other man’s words.

“I kept ya alive while ya were free.”

“I need you to keep me that way a little longer. If you do, I’ll be happy to pay that debt.” Keats gestured. “This is a list of Effington’s warehouses in Rotherhithe. I suspect we will find the explosives in some of them.”

“Why ya think that?”

“I just do. I need your help, Clancy. Someone is planning a very unpleasant surprise for our fellow citizens come tomorrow.” He tucked away the paper and told Clancy what they’d learned, without mentioning Jacynda’s involvement or that of the shifters.

His companion whistled softly. “Sweet Jesus, it’ll be a massacre. We Irish’ll be blamed.”

“Very likely. I need your help, and that of some of the dockworkers. We have to go through all those warehouses, find the bombs, and then I’ll disarm them.”

“Why can’t the rozzers do that?” Clancy asked, looking skeptical.

“If I bring a swarm of Blue Bottles in here, the plotters may move the bombs somewhere else. We need to have them think everything is going as planned.”

Clancy shook his head. “Not sure if the others will want to be part of this.”

“If all this burns, they’ll be no work for months. Nothing like the threat of starvation to motivate a man.”

The Irishman nodded grimly. “Ya have a point. Come on, I’ll take ya to ’em.”

Friday, 9 November, 1888

Arundel Hotel

Cynda stared into the darkness for a couple of hours, unable to settle down. Too much was parading through her mind. A quick check of her watch showed it was nearly four in the morning. Over in Dorset Street, Jack the Ripper was making short work of Mary Kelly.

Shivering at the thought, Cynda rolled out of bed. She wedged herself in the bedroom door, bone tired. Theo looked up from his maps, dark half-moons under his eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked in a voice that grated like sandpaper. She shook her head. “Neither can I.”

She drifted to the couch and flopped down. “What’s worrying you?”

Theo made a frustrated jab at the maps. “The precision of the explosions. That’s not feasible using Victorian technology.”

Which left only one option. “Someone from our time is helping them,” she ventured. Theo nodded wearily. “Copeland?”

“He’s my odds-on favorite right now.” He joined her on the couch. “I forwarded the coin to Fulham. I’m hoping to have a report soon.”

“Then you’re doing all you can.”

“I’m not convinced of that.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “I’ve been naïve.”

“How so?”

“I thought that once we sorted Keats’ timeline, everything would be fine. I thought—” Theo halted abruptly.

“Go on,” she prompted.

He looked over at her. “I thought how wonderful it would be here with you. I imagined us going to the theater together, maybe to the zoo. We would hire one of those colorful boats and float up and down the Regent’s Canal.”

Theo was a daydreamer?
She never would have imagined that.