Time Rovers 03 Madman's Dance (61 page)

“Jane and I are moving to Brighton, near her family. I fancy a house near the water. It’s idyllic there. No Home Office toadies or police commissioner watching my every move.”

“Your good wife will be,” Ramsey quipped.

Fisher chuckled. “Yes, she has already said that I must acquire a hobby, a pursuit that keeps me occupied. She is accustomed to running her own household, and would not appreciate a retired chief inspector’s interference.”

Ramsey quirked a bushy eyebrow. “So how long will it be before
they
start pulling my chain?”

“Not long. It’s been embarrassing for them, what with Warren’s resignation and the prince putting pressure on them about Keats. You’ll have a lot on your plate.”

“Do you think Hulme killed himself?”

Fisher shook his head. “No, but that’s one avenue of investigation you should not pursue.”

“I don’t like the notion that someone can murder a copper and get away with it.”

“Or frame one, for that matter.”

Ramsey sighed. “Where will I find someone to take my place when the time comes?”

Fisher smiled. “That’s your problem, Chief Inspector, not mine. Not anymore.”

Ramsey offered his large hand and Fisher shook it earnestly.

“Watch your back, Martin. If you need advice, contact me. Visit me sometime during the next week. We’ll dine together. There’s a private conversation we must have. You don’t know all the players in this game, but I’ll tell you what I know. Just not here.”

“Does it have something to do with those coins?”

“Those remain a mystery.”

Ramsey nodded. “What about Keats?”

“I suspect you and he will bump heads soon enough.”

“That I don’t doubt,” the new chief inspector replied.

“Let me clear out my things and you can move in.”

“Take your time, sir. I’m in no hurry. The sooner I’m in that chair, the sooner they’re at my throat.”

~••~••~••~

“If you would prefer not to do this, I am willing to view the body,” Keats offered, clearly puzzled by her reticence. “Just give me a description and I’ll see if it’s him.”

“No. You’ll just be guessing,” Cynda replied.

“I hadn’t expected you to find this so difficult,” he noted sympathetically.

“It’s not. It’s just that… Chris. I had to identify him just like this.” Cynda touched his arm. “If it’s him, I’ll need a couple seconds alone with the body.”

“As you wish.”

This morgue attendant seemed a bit more on the ball than the last one she’d encountered. Keats did the talking, explaining how Cynda was looking for a lost relative and that when she’d read the article in the newspaper, she felt the need to view the body that had been fished out the Thames just this morning.

“Who ya missing?” the man asked.

“My cousin,” she said, trying to sound suitably upset.

“What’s he look like?”

She told him. He heaved himself out of the chair and waved them forward into the room.

The form was covered by the usual gray sheet.

“Ain’t pretty, miss. Been in the water a few days. Doesn’t do nothin’ for ’em.”

“I know. Go on.”

Keats took hold of her arm as the sheet was drawn back. Cynda winced and wrinkled her nose at the smell. Unlike Chris, who had been found very quickly, this body had been given the full Thames treatment. One leg was at an odd angle, chunks of flesh were missing. The bloating had begun, but the face was still recognizable. A massive bruise sat just below his chin.

She gave Keats a look. He took the hint.

“Who found him?” he asked, leading the attendant a few steps away.

“Couple of watermen. They hauled ’im in.”

Alf and Syd, maybe?
She hoped that was the case.

Cynda leaned closer. Carefully touching the Dinky Doc to the corpse’s neck, she held it in place until she got the post-mortem readings she needed.
Water in lungs.
Copeland had landed in the Thames and drowned like a rat. No matter how hard she tried, there was no sympathy.

“You family, too?” the attendant asked.

“No, I’m an agent of private enquiry,” Keats replied.

“A what?”

“Sort of a detective. Did this fellow have any personal possessions on him?”

“Nothin’.”

So much for his interface. If Guv wants it, they can send someone else to find it.

“Is he the one, miss?” the fellow called out.

Yeah, he’s the one
. “No,” she said, turning away, holding a handkerchief to her face, mostly to stifle the smell. She walked hurriedly toward Keats. “I need air,” she said, trying to sound breathlessly feminine.

“Thank you, sir,” her companion said, dropping a coin in the man’s outstretched hand.

Cynda jammed the handkerchief back into her pocket the moment they reached the street. Copeland had met a nasty end, killed for his failure. If no one claimed his body, he was headed for a pauper’s grave. She saw no reason to alter that.

Tuesday, 13 November, 1888

Highgate Cemetery

Cynda carefully made her way down the steps of the carriage, mindful of her full skirts. She could have come by hansom, but in her mind that would not have shown her respect for the woman they would bury this evening. As was proper, she’d chosen the finest black mourning dress with a full veil. It had only taken a quick trip to the venerable Jay’s of Regent Street to acquire everything she needed to pay tribute to Adelaide Winston. If nothing else, the Victorians were masters of grief.

“Come back in about an hour,” she called up to the driver.

“As you wish, miss,” he said, tapping his hat. “Sorry for your loss.”

So am I.
Though Cynda had only met Adelaide Winston once, it was easy to discern the power the woman held over Harter Defoe. A strong woman navigating the waters of a man’s world. She’d been worthy of his adoration.

She took her time walking toward the gravesite, passing mausoleums and gravestones alike. This would be an unusual funeral. Most did not occur at dusk, and few involved a top London courtesan. The funeral notice had appeared in the paper, black-edged, but dignified. Even in death, standards must be upheld.

As Cynda approached the final resting place, she noted only a handful of Victorians present. It appeared most of Adelaide’s admirers were more concerned about maintaining their reputations than bidding her farewell. Still, in years to come the occasional bouquet of roses or bottle of sherry might be propped up against the headstone as a token of respect, and of fond memory.

Anderson had kept his word. To her relief, Harter Defoe stood at the side of the grave, his face pale and his coat rumpled. The figure next to him was immaculate: top hat, black suit, black gloves and cravat. The epitome of Victorian mourning. As she moved closer, he tipped his hat in respect.

“Theo,” she said softly.
Thank God you’re here.

“Jacynda,” he replied solemnly. Their hands briefly touched, then withdrew. To do more in front of Defoe would be thoughtless.

Robert Anderson stood on the other side of the grave and he nodded at her. She recognized a few of the other mourners: Adelaide’s butler, for one, and a few other well-dressed women.
Probably rivals.

The funeral went as any other. The priest spoke of redemption, of God’s paradise even for a woman who had tempted others onto the path of sin. As the sun vanished behind the buildings in the distance, Cynda saw no paradise, no redemption—only a man who had lost his way.

Through it all, Defoe remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the grave. When the customary shovelful of dirt plummeted downward, striking the coffin with a dull thud, he shuddered. On impulse, she took hold of his hand, gripping it tightly. He looked at her, confused, before returning his gaze to the coffin.

It was nearly dark by the time the local mourners departed. Cynda looked around for the gravediggers. They were nowhere in sight.

“I asked them to wait until we left,” Anderson informed her, divining her thoughts. His eyes tracked over to Theo. There seemed to be tension between them.

“You two know each other?” she asked as she rolled back the veil.

“We just met,” Anderson said. Theo didn’t reply, but she could tell by the set of his jaw it hadn’t been a pleasant meeting.

Wordlessly, Defoe knelt by the open grave, dismantling a rose. Petals floated downward and settled onto the coffin, mingling with the clods of dark dirt, burgundy against brown.

When he was finished, he raised his head, like he’d just caught a scent on the wind. His eyes were lit with that strange fire. It’d had been there as Adelaide had bled to death in his arms, and then at Effington’s party.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” he pleaded, his voice raw. “I need to get her back.”

“She’s gone, Harter; we can’t change that,” Theo told him gently, his words catching on the emotions. “I am so sorry, my friend.”

The fire in the grieving man’s eyes grew stronger. “Then I’ll do it. I can go back and kill him. I can save her.”

“That will not work, Mr. Defoe,” Anderson replied patiently.

It was only then Cynda noticed the band on Rover One’s wrist. She glowered at Anderson. “What is that?”

“It keeps him from shifting. If it wasn’t there, he’d go Virtual on us and disappear.”

“You told me he’s not your prisoner,” Theo barked.

Anderson frowned. “He’s not. If I recall correctly, you did something similar for Miss Lassiter when she was incapable of keeping herself safe.”

Theo bit back an oath.

Thick sobs rebounded off the headstones in the still night air. Cynda held Defoe as he descended into his private hell, her own tears triggered by his. What if it had been Theo in that grave? Would she change history to save him?

Yes.

“I loved her,” Defoe confessed between strangled sobs. “We were going to have a house in Paris, a small garden. It would have been perfect.” He rambled on, his words gathering momentum. “It can still happen, still be right. I’m the Father of Time. I can fix anything!”

Except death.

“Harter,” Theo began.

“I will make it right,” Defoe retorted. “I have to. I don’t care what happens.”

“You can’t,” Theo said softly.

His friend glared up at him. “You don’t want us to be together,” he raved. “You’re jealous because she loves me, and
no one
ever loved you.”

Whoa.

“We should go,” Anderson said, opening up his interface.

“No. This won’t work,” Theo announced. “When we finish here, he comes with me. I’ll try to find a way to mitigate the Transitive effects and restore his sanity.”

Cynda’s gut told her that would be a mistake.

“I’m sorry, Theo, but I don’t agree,” she said. His expression turned to hurt, like she’d stabbed him in the back. “There’s too much going on we don’t know about. Let Anderson take care of him. He’s given us his word he’ll keep Defoe safe.”

“Why should I trust him?” Theo asked. He spoke in anger, but his eyes were filled with indecision. “You’re just guessing these people are on the level. You have no idea.”

“Theo, I—”

“Will you trust me?” a voice asked. A figure now stood next to Anderson, clad in navy. She rolled back the light veil.

The woman from Bedlam, the one who had given her the piece of paper with her name on it. This was no shifter
en mirage
. Just in case Cynda had any doubts, the blue arachnid on the woman’s shoulder gave her an enthusiastic wave. Her own delusion returned it.

“You look good,” her Mr. Spider announced. “A little gray, a little heavier, but it suits you.”

He was right. The few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes spoke of contentment.

“Is she for real?” Theo asked, his eyes riveted on the newcomer. “I mean…”

She knew what he meant. “Yes, she is.” Cynda shook her head at the newcomer. “I should have guessed it was you at the asylum.”

“You should have,” her future self chided back, “at least once your mind was back online.”

“Why did you leave me there? You knew what would happen.”

“We had multiple time threads in play so I had to let them go forward. I knew you were in danger, but I just had to hope you’d survive. For both of us.”

“
We
could have drowned in the river,” Cynda protested. It seemed odd arguing with yourself.

“It was worth the risk.” She turned to Theo. “Harter has to come with us.”

Theo’s frown didn’t diminish. “I don’t know what’s going on in your time, but I know Harter. He needs to be with me.”

“It’s got to be this way,” the future Cynda insisted. “If he stays with you, he’s in danger.”

“He’s my best friend. It is my duty to help him in any way I can.”

Her future self lightly drifted across the grass and touched his sleeve. It wasn’t an awkward gesture, but one that seemed natural, like she’d done it a thousand times. It was a gesture of respect. Love.

“The danger is not just to him,” she said, her voice uneven now. “Please, Theo, let us help him.”

His dark eyes turned Cynda’s way, pleading for guidance.

Oblivious to the conversation, Defoe was clutching the rose stem, now devoid of petals. He didn’t seem to notice. One moment he was grieving, the next maniacal. A mental seesaw.

Theo took a deep breath, bordering on a shudder. “He can go with you.” She swore she heard his heart tearing in two.

Cynda knelt next to the grieving man who was staring blindly into the grave. “Come on,” she urged him gently. “It’s time.”

Defoe shot a look over his shoulder at Theo as they rose. “
He
did this,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret. “But I can make it right. I know how.”

The mania was growing again. She shot an urgent look at Anderson.

“Harter…” Theo began. It was too late. He was talking to air where his best friend and Anderson had once stood.

Cynda’s future self leaned closer to him, whispering to him, then brushed a kiss on his cheek. He murmured something, and she whispered again. Whatever she said earned her a faint smile. After holding their gaze longer than necessary, each of them turned away.

Without a sound, she vanished.

Cynda stared at the empty space, then down at the coffin. Around them she could hear birds settling in the trees, the hoot of an owl. Theo grasped her hand tightly in his, tears forming streaks down his face. He made no effort to wipe them away.