Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (5 page)

“And risk censure for attending one of her parties, even by accident?” Alastair protested. “You saw the list of men who were bedding her. Almost without exception, those calling cards we found in her bedroom represent powerful people who do not want to risk exposure. Either way, Keats would have been made the fool.”

“Better a fool than a condemned man,” Fisher shot back. “Damn and blast! We are missing a very large piece of this puzzle, Doctor. My twenty-two years on the force tell me there’s another player in this game, one who’s way ahead of us.”

“Perhaps it is the man who was visiting Effington.”

Fisher turned. “In
disguise,
no less.”

Alastair didn’t reply, unsure of what to say. Fisher had no direct knowledge of Transitive politics. For an Opaque, as the non-shifters were derisively called, he knew too much already.

“I will see what I can learn from my…
kind
,” the doctor said, rising.

“That would help. I deeply appreciate your candor, Doctor. Keep me apprised of anything you hear. If we’re lucky these are no more than overly ambitious anarchists.”

“And if we’re not?” Alastair asked.

Fisher turned his back on him, resuming his post at the window.

“One thing is very certain, Doctor. Blindness always comes at a very high price.”

2057 A.D.

TEM Enterprises

Morrisey waited patiently as Harter Defoe adjusted the Thera-Bed controls with considerable care. His usually sharp gray eyes were dull, his face sallow. He’d always seemed so robust, but the bullet wound in his chest had drawn down some of that vitality.

“Did it fall out like I thought?” his friend asked.

“Yes,” Morrisey replied, pulling up a chair. “Davies was in fine form, as usual. They want Miss Lassiter back immediately, and they’d love to get their hands on you, old friend. If I give them what they want, they won’t file charges.”

“Well, then, I’d sell us out if I were you,” Defoe joked.

Morrisey chuckled. “And listen to you bitch for eternity? No thank you.”

Defoe issued his own cautious chuckle in deference to the healing wound. “So they still don’t know I’m here, or that I’m wounded. That’s a miracle, of sorts.”

“Loyal employees are an imperative in this business. Did you know that Fletcher is off the Board?”

“You’re kidding? I thought she was there for life. She was the only sensible one of the bunch.”

“There’s a decided lack of good sense on the Board at present.”

“So what’s Davies’ take on the ’88 mess?”

“He doesn’t think it’s a big deal. They believe that if Miss Lassiter returns to ’057, all will be well.”

Defoe snorted. “From what you’ve told me, this isn’t just a ripple.”

“Not at all. This is something much bigger.”

“So what is really happening?”

Morrisey laid it out in plain language. “A Victorian’s timeline has been completely hijacked, and if the new thread continues, Sergeant Jonathon Keats is going to hang for a murder that never occurred in the original timeline. Should the new thread gain precedence, it will continue to ripple forward, altering history.”

Although time usually mended itself rather quickly in Morrisey’s experience, this wasn’t history skinning a knee; this was a life-threatening hemorrhage.

“What a mess,” Defoe grumbled. “Did Lassiter do this?”

Morrisey frowned. “I’m not sure. I think she had some impact on Sergeant Keats’ timeline, but it should have mended itself.”

“Any word from her?”

“No,” Morrisey admitted. “She does go off-leash on occasion, but I would have thought she’d have contacted us, if nothing more than to check on your condition.”

“I told her to leave me there.”

“What, so you could die a hero?”

“Don’t start that crap,” Defoe shot back, glaring. “I get enough of it from the Vid-Net news reporters and all those damned time groupies. Lassiter was just reducing her debt. I’ve saved her enough times.”

“For which I thank you.”

Defoe gave him a puzzled look. “You’re a lot more hands off when it comes to the employees, especially the women. Why the change?”

“Before Chris left on his last trip to ’88, he asked me to watch over Miss Lassiter should anything happen to him.”

“Do you think your nephew knew he was in danger?”

“No, but he was unusually solemn. Something seemed to be weighing on his mind.”

“How did you know I was in 1888?” Defoe asked.

“An educated guess. You once said you wanted to see Richard Mansfield’s performance of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
at the Lyceum Theater. I figured once you’d done that, you’d remain in London for a while. You were always fond of that era.”

“Very clever.” Defoe went quiet for a time. “When I met Chris that night, he told me about Guv’s offer. They wanted me to keep an eye on things, work for them. They were worried about what TPB is up to.”

“I suspected as much.”

Defoe winced when he took too deep a breath. “I’m sorry…”

“What?” Morrisey asked, momentarily confused.

His friend looked him straight in the eyes. “After Chris…I’m sorry we ever figured out how to time travel. We should have left the fourth dimension alone, Theo. Who the hell did we think we were? Gods?”

“Not gods. At least not me.”

Defoe smiled wanly at the jest. “It’s too late now. Just like Pandora’s Box. We’ve got people jumping all over the centuries, doing this and that. I’m surprised it hasn’t gone wrong before now.”

“We’ll fix it, Harter. Then I think maybe we should step back from this. Let Guv take it on.”

“They’d be as bad as TPB,” Defoe protested.

“I don’t know. I don’t sense Davies has a conscience, but every now and then I swear I see the glimmer of one in Senior Agent Klein.”

“That’s a disturbing thought.” Defoe fussed with the sheet for a moment. “How much trouble would you be in if Klein learns I’m here?”

“From Guv, not much. I think TPB is a bigger threat at present.”

“Then give me a few days, and let Klein know I want to see him.” He adjusted the controls, upping the amount of painkiller. “I’m going to rest now.”

“I’ll stay until you’re asleep.”

Morrisey waited until the patient’s breathing was deep and regular. The blue line on the Thera-Bed had advanced considerably during the day, heralding his friend’s continued improvement.

Thank God for that. I can’t bear to lose you as well.

~••~••~••~

Wednesday, 24 October,
1
888

Bethlem Royal Hospital

The new cell was much like hers, only the occupant was very strange. Why had the nice man brought her here?

“This is Mad Sammy,” the attendant explained. Then he lowered his voice, “Whatever ya do, don’t make her angry, ya understand?”

Cynda nodded and the door swung shut behind her. The woman in the corner jutted out her neck and glared at her. They eyed each other. When the other woman didn’t speak, Cynda pulled a bit of leftover bread out of a pocket and offered it to her. Nothing happened. She took a few steps forward and held out her hand. The woman snatched it from her like a feral child.

Then she began to sing. The voice was low, with an earthy Irish accent. It sounded like a lullaby. Entranced, Cynda went to the far side of the cell, settling against the wall, knees to her chest. She drifted with the voice. It made her head hurt less. In her mind, she heard another voice singing along, and saw the face of a woman with brown hair. She had no notion who the woman was and that made her sad.

When the song trailed off a flitting gray figure scurried toward the other woman. It was a mouse, a baby one. It paused, whiskers testing the air. Then it inched closer.

The woman crooned, “Come here, little one.” She laid bread crumbs on her palm and then extended it flat on the stone floor. The little mouse hopped up and began to daintily nibble on the food.

Cynda smiled in wonder. “So small.”

The odd woman’s face turned toward her, neck extending. Her eyes narrowed.

“I had a pet mouse once,” Cynda said, then blinked in confusion. Where had that come from? She tried to remember the creature, but nothing more came from her ravaged brain.

“Ya’d feed it?” Mad Sammy asked.

Cynda nodded.

The eyes grew less cautious. “There’s another one,” she said, pointing.

A fuzzy gray face appeared from under the bed. It was bigger than the baby one. Cynda broke off a piece of bread and placed it on her palm like the other woman.

Whiskers twitched.

“I won’t hurt you,” Cynda murmured, captivated by the creature. It worked its way toward her, one cautious scurry at a time. It climbed up onto her hand, claws resting on her flesh. The mouse picked up the piece of offering and began to eat, rotating the bread after each nibble.

Cynda beamed. When she looked up at her companion, Mad Sammy gave a jerky nod of approval.

“Ya’ll do,” she declared. “Ya’ll do.”

~••~••~••~

The sharp rap on Alastair’s door didn’t sound like his landlady, but nevertheless indicated someone of authority. He rarely had visitors late in the evening. His interest piqued, he cracked open the door. His hunch was correct: Chief Inspector Fisher waited in the hallway.

“May I come in?” Fisher asked.

Caught off guard, Alastair could only agree.

Fisher hoisted a chair. “Your landlady advised me you only had one.” He moved in as if he were a relative, setting himself close to the hearth. Then he examined the room. “Intimate,” he observed politely.

That was an understatement. All of ten-by-ten, the room contained a single bed, chair, a washbasin and wardrobe, all jostling for space with his medical books.

Alastair angled his own chair toward his visitor, leaving only a few inches between them. It was uncomfortably tight.

“Has Keats turned himself in?” he inquired hopefully. He could think of no other reason for this unprecedented visit.

“No. Instead, I received a letter at my home this evening. It is a rather remarkable one. I felt you should see it.” Fisher retrieved a folded stack of papers from his jacket. “I will admit to being stunned upon reading this. Keats has an alibi, did you know that?”

“Then why has he not come forward?” Alastair asked, astonished.

“It’s the nature of the alibi that is the issue. These…” Fisher waved the many pieces of paper, “comprise a private letter and a police report, if you can believe it. He’s on the run for murder and he’s still filing reports, just like he’s on duty.”

“Sounds like Keats.” Alastair accepted the papers, straightening them.

“Before you delve into all that, you might as well know: Desmond Flaherty is his alibi.”

Alastair’s mouth dropped open. “But…how…that’s absurd!”

“Indeed. After Keats visited Miss Lassiter at the hotel on the night of the murder, he went into Whitechapel. He was promptly accosted by Flaherty and a few of his men. Instead of cutting him up…well, read it for yourself. It is no less improbable on paper.”

Alastair skimmed through the documents. Smudge marks immortalized Keats’ thumbprint in grime. The penmanship was uneven, as if he didn’t have a desk, but wrote on whatever surface came to hand. The first page was a letter to Fisher, apologizing for the trouble he had brought upon his superior. The next few sheets comprised a detailed summary of Keats’ whereabouts from the night of Nicci Hallcox’s murder until he realized he was a wanted man. The last page was a summary of what he’d learned about Hugo Effington and the possible connection between the warehouse owner and Desmond Flaherty.

By the time he finished the pages, Alastair was despondent. Keats, blinded by his duty to capture the anarchist, had put himself into the noose. Instead of recovering from his injuries in the safety of his rooms, he’d been snooping in Whitechapel—a fact that had allowed someone to frame him for murder.

“What an idiot,” Alastair muttered. “If he’d only listened to me.” He found the chief inspector watching him intently. “If you arrest Flaherty, can the Yard bargain with him in order to obtain his testimony?”

Fisher leaned back into the wooden chair. “If we do, it will look as if we’d forced him to testify to save Keats’ neck. It will only work if Flaherty comes forward voluntarily and we have evidence to substantiate his testimony.”

Which will never happen.

“Someone must have seen them in Whitechapel,” Alastair complained. “You can’t have…” he flipped through the pages again, “five Fenians in an alley accosting a man without someone noticing. And this coffin Keats mentions, where did that come from?”

“That is yet to be determined.”

“Why not put a knife into him, or beat him senseless like the last time?” Alastair persisted. “Why go to all the trouble of hauling him out of the city?”

“It is a puzzle,” Fisher replied. “I’ll put Ramsey on this tomorrow morning, but I doubt he’ll learn much. No one’s going to talk to save a member of the Yard, not when Flaherty’s involved.”

Alastair handed the correspondence to the chief inspector. “Where was this mailed?”

“Wapping. The postmark is from last night.”

Jacynda.
When he’d encountered her in Wapping the previous evening, she’d just mailed a letter—perhaps this very one, which meant she knew where Keats was hiding. Had he told her of his alibi? Why hadn’t Keats shared this information with him first?

Fisher rose and tidied up the pages, putting them back into the envelope. He tucked it away inside his coat and then let his hands drop to his sides.

“I have held hope in my breast since this first happened, but every day makes it worse. There are even calls for my resignation.”

“You cannot resign,” Alastair protested. “Keats must have a champion.”

“That is all that keeps me in place.”

Alastair rose and offered his hand. “Thank you for sharing this information, Chief Inspector. I deeply appreciate your courtesy.”

They shook hands solemnly. “I felt of all people, you should know. Keats fought for you when it looked as if you had blood on your hands. I know you will do the same, even if I’m not there to help him.”