Madman's Dance (Time Rovers) Read online

  When she grew tired of the game, she headed for the sand. Dropping to her knees, she started moving it around, trying to decide what she wanted to build.

  Then he came, the bald man called Weber. He started asking silly questions. She glared, but he didn’t leave. Even the one named Ralph knew better than that.

  “Why are you doing that?” Weber asked, typing his notes into his machine again.

  “Because it’s fun,” she replied, pushing sand around.

  “Why do you think that?”

  She frowned. “Because it is.”

  Cynda scooped a huge handful and then formed one of the four towers, adding the little impressions at the top with her pinkie. She tried to remember what they were called, but couldn’t come up with the word. She just knew they had to be there.

  “What are these called?” she asked, pointing at one of them.

  “I have no idea.”

  Then go away. She created the second tower, repeating the little impressions.

  “Miss Lassiter?”

  “What?” she grumbled.

  “You are too ill to be here. You need treatment. You’re not going to get better building castles in the sand. ”

  Castle? She smiled. So that’s what it is.

  She started work on the third tower. There was another series of beeps from the bald man’s machine, then he walked off.

  Good.

  She eyed the thing she’d been building. Castle. “Still not right.” She needed one of those water things that went around the outside. She hiked to the black box and asked the question.

  “Water thing. Around a…a…castle. What is it?”

  “Moat,” it replied.

  That was it. She needed a moat.

  “Miss Lassiter?” Morrisey was on the walkway. She could tell by his face that something wasn’t right. He removed his shoes and joined her, kneeling in the sand.

  “Very nice,” he remarked, his voice even softer than usual.

  “I like it.” She pointed up at the pagoda’s roof. “I built it for them.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  She stared at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “A judge has decided that I do not have the right to keep you from receiving treatment for your Adrenalin Reactive Disorder.”

  “What’s Adren...”

  “It means you have a tendency to be more violent than the rest of us.”

  “I haven’t hurt anyone,” she told him. At least not that she could remember.

  “No, you haven’t, but they think you might. The judge is allowing you to stay here, but he did order you to receive the treatment.” He looked away. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Cynda wasn’t sure what it all meant, but it seemed to hurt him. The lines on his face were deeper now.

  She panicked. “Will it make me worse?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That was honest. “If it does, I won’t do it anymore.” She pointed. “Do you think I should have another…ah….ah…mmm…water thing over here?”

  The question pulled him out of his dark thoughts. “Yes, I think you do. The castles I’ve seen had moats on most of the exposed sides.”

  Moat. She kept forgetting that word. “You’ve seen them for real?” she asked in wonder.

  “Yes. So have you, or you wouldn’t have made this so accurately.”

  “Maybe I have. I just don’t remember.” She pointed at the top of the turret. “What are these called?”

  “Crenellations. They allow an archer to fire down upon an enemy.”

  “What’s an archer?”

  “Someone with a bow and arrow.”

  “Do you know everything?” she asked, cocking her head.

  “No, unfortunately I don’t.” He sighed and rose. “I will let them know you will accept the treatment.”

  “Only if I can stay here,” she insisted.

  A nod. He plodded off, shoulders bent under some invisible weight.

  Chapter 20

  Thursday, 1 November, 1888

  Scotland Yard

  Fisher looked up as the door opened. “Thank you for coming in early, Inspector.” Ramsey heaved his bulk into the chair and then yawned.

  “What’s going on, sir?”

  “In a moment. First, what do you think of the trial so far?” Fisher quizzed.

  “Well, if I ever need a barrister, Wescomb’s the man. He’s sharp and he knows how to play to the jury.”

  “True.” Fisher watched his subordinate shift his weight in the chair for the third time. “What’s troubling you?”

  “To be blunt, sir, Inspector Hulme. He’s not doing a proper job of this. He didn’t seem to care a lick when I told him about the boots. It’s like it didn’t matter at all.”

  “I agree, it’s quite odd,” Fisher replied.

  “It’s more than odd, sir. Anderson and I talked to every single bloody coffin maker in Whitechapel. Only one said Hulme had been to see him. From what I hear, he spent his time in the pub in Ingatestone rather than conducting his investigation.”

  Fisher frowned. “He’s had a tolerably good record up to this point. Nothing outstanding, mind you, but solid work.”

  “I’ve heard the same,” Ramsey concurred. “I keep asking myself why he’d bugger this up so badly. Hulme could look right smart in your eyes, maybe land a job here in the Yard. Instead, he’s made a royal cock-up of it.”

  Fisher opened a desk drawer and extracted a sheet of paper. “I suspect it might have something to do with this.” He handed over the sheet. “This is the list of men who left their calling cards at Miss Hallcox’s residence. The dates are when we believe they partook of her custom. She may well have been blackmailing all of them.”

  Ramsey studied the list, then whistled. “There’s a load of toffs here.”

  “That’s my point. Important people know how to pull strings. It’s how you remain important.”

  “This didn’t come out in the inquest.”

  “We were not allowed to mention it. Find me the truth, Ramsey. I’ll live with it either way.”

  Ramsey returned the list.

  Ramsey’s eyes raised, then he frowned. “Why not us?”

  Fisher stroked his moustache. “That’s why I called you in. I was summoned to Warren’s office last night. A complaint has been lodged at the highest level. He’s not happy about it either, truth be told.”

  “What sort of complaint?”

  “About your sterling work on behalf of the sergeant. I have been instructed that there is to be no further effort on any matter related to the Hallcox case. It is Hulme’s kettle of fish, so I’ve been told.”

  Ramsey glowered. “So let me make sure I’ve got this.” He paused, his face turning ruddy. “You’re saying that some posh gent who doesn’t know his arse from his ears is telling me not to do my damned job?”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  Ramsey dropped the list on the desk and spread his hands. “Why should I fight them? I’ve got the best pony in the race, don’t I? I play along, Keats’ll hang, and I’ll be sitting pretty, won’t I? He’ll be out of the way and someday your desk will be mine, along with the title and the pay packet.”

  His face went dark as he leaned over and jammed a thick finger at his superior. “No one—not Hulme, Warren or the Queen herself—tells me not to be a copper. If I have to do this under the table, then I will. You understand me?”

  Fisher blinked rapidly, unaccustomed to Ramsey’s rebellious streak. “As far as I am concerned, Inspector, you are pursuing Desmond Flaherty and the explosives. I will expect your reports to reflect that, no matter your actual activities.”

  Ramsey smiled grimly. “I knew you’d see it my way, sir.”

  “Please take care, Martin. Your future at the Yard is at stake.”

  Ramsey’s fury dampened. “I know, sir. If Warren’s pulling back on your reins, I wonder how high this goes.”

  Fisher tapped the list where it sat on his desk.
/>   “Assume it goes all the way to the top.”

  ~••~••~••~

  Keats studied the man who had put him in the dock. There wasn’t much to be said about Nicci’s butler: middle-aged, eyes glassy, hands with a fine tremor. An alcoholic devoted to his debauched mistress. He might feel sympathy for the fellow if the tables had been turned.

  Arnett started right in. “Mr. Landis, how long had you been in the employ of Miss Hallcox?”

  “Um, ah, a little over a year, sir,” Landis replied, his voice like gravel.

  “Enjoyed your service, did you?”

  “It had its good points,” the butler allowed.

  Her liquor cabinet, for one.

  “Was she a fair employer?”

  “Yes, as they go.”

  “Paid you well?” Arnett asked.

  “Yes.”

  “As Lord Wescomb has pointed out, apparently she was very social.”

  The butler’s face turned crimson. “Yes,” he affirmed tersely. Keats leaned forward in the dock, watching the man intently.

  “The Friday evening before her murder, Miss Hallcox hosted a party.”

  The butler shifted his position in the witness box, uncomfortable. “Yes.”

  “What was the nature of that soiree?”

  “Umm…a costume party, sir.”

  “Everyone was in costume?”

  “Yes.”

  Costume? Hardly. That’s not the way Keats remembered it. Dryads and queens, satyrs and other mythological beasts all cheerfully ravaging each other in a haze of opium and too much alcohol. It was a nightmare he would never forget.

  “Was the prisoner in costume as well?”

  “Ah, no. Neither he nor his female companion.”

  “Female companion?” Arnett quizzed, feigning surprise. “What was her name?”

  “She didn’t give it out.”

  “Tell us what happened that night when the prisoner arrived.”

  “He acted in a belligerent fashion, demanding to see my mistress.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I asked her if she was willing to receive him. My mistress agreed. They spoke for a few minutes, and then he left.”

  “And his companion?”

  “She left with him.”

  “Let’s move ahead to the night of the murder. You said the prisoner visited earlier in the evening. How long did he stay?”

  “Only a few minutes.”

  “How many? Two, five, ten?”

  “Five, if that. He was out of there like a shot, and very angry.”

  “Ah, yes, in your statement you indicate he left in a fine fury. Did he say anything?”

  The butler glowered in Keats’ direction. “He said my mistress was an abomination and that the Devil would claim her soul someday.”

  Trust the fool to remember every word.

  “How dramatic,” Arnett remarked. “Did that sound like a threat to you, Mr. Landis?”

  “It did.”

  Before Wescomb could object, the Crown Prosecutor continued, “During his second visit that very evening, you stated the prisoner entered the house without your knowledge. Was the front door left unbolted?”

  “No.”

  “Did the sergeant have a key?”

  “Not likely.”

  “Did your mistress let him in?”

  “My mistress did not greet guests at the door,” the butler replied tartly.

  Arnett’s eyebrow went up. “Then how did he get inside the house? That is a puzzle, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lock picks? Surely, Arnett wouldn’t dare suggest he’d broken into the house like a common criminal?

  The Crown Prosecutor gave a pleased nod. “Thank you, sir. That will be all.”

  Wescomb rose. “Mr. Landis, how long have you been a butler?”

  “Five years.”

  “How many positions have you held during that time?”

  Landis instantly went crimson and tugged at his collar. “Six.”

  “Why so many? Better opportunities?”

  “Yes,” he responded quickly.

  “Your previous positions have been terminated because of your fondness for drink, is that not correct?”

  “One or two.”

  “I have letters from each of your former employers, and they say—”

  “All right, all of them.”

  “Were you drinking before your mistress’ body was discovered?”

  “I might have had a drop.”

  “Of course. On the night of the party, you state that Sergeant Keats acted in a belligerent fashion. Could you explain further?”

  “He arrived without an invitation and insisted he had to speak to my mistress. When I said she was willing to meet with him, he demanded to know if there was a party in progress.”

  “Why?”

  “Said he didn’t want to be there if there was.”

  “Now that’s singular. Most of us like a good knees-up.” Chuckles in the room. “Why would Sergeant Keats not want to attend Miss Hallcox’s soiree?”

  “I don’t know,” Landis replied, his fingers drumming nervously in his lap.

  “What was the nature of this…gathering?”

  The butler’s eyes widened at the word. It told him Wescomb knew precisely the nature of that evening. “It was…”

  “Go on.”

  “It was a…” He coughed, a haunted expression spreading across his face.

  “We are waiting, Mr. Landis,” Wescomb prodded. No reply. “Perhaps I shall assist. Was this a debauchery, sir?”

  Landis nodded stiffly as murmurs spread through the courtroom.

  “How many were present?” Wescomb quizzed.

  “About thirty or so.”

  “Is that the usual number for one of Miss Hallcox’s parties?”

  “About. Sometimes it was more, others less.”

  “Were these participants above the age of consent?” Wescomb asked, his voice suddenly brittle. A collective gasp came from the audience at the implication.

  “Of course,” the butler replied swiftly.

  “Well, at least that’s a relief. You said Sergeant Keats emphatically stated he did not want to be at one of these events. Had he been to one before?”

  Keats’ heart double beat. It was fortunate that Nicci burned through servants as fast as she did lovers, or someone might have remembered him from all those years ago, en mirage or not.

  “Not that I know of,” the butler replied.

  Keats exhaled silently.

  “Still, it sounds as if Sergeant Keats was aware of your mistress’ reputation and had no desire to be tainted by it.”

  Excellent!

  “I object, my lord,” Arnett said, rising. “He’s leading the witness.”

  “I agree,” the judge ruled.

  “I shall take more care in future, my lord,” Wescomb replied politely. He turned his attention to the witness once again. “What was the sergeant’s reaction when you ushered them into the room where this orgy was unfolding?”

  “He was very angry. He began to look for a way out. He seemed very worried about the young lady who was with him.”

  “I can imagine. Your mistress spoke with them?” A nod. “Did you overhear their conversation?” Another nod. “Please tell us what it entailed.”

  “My mistress was upset that he wanted to ask her questions instead of participating.”

  “So he was on official business?”

  “I can’t say that for sure. I didn’t hear much beyond that. I was called away to refresh the drinks.”

  “Ah yes, I would guess that bacchanals are thirsty work.” There were chortles in the courtroom, earning Wescomb a scowl from Justice Hawkins. “How soon did they leave?”

  “Almost immediately.”

  “They did not participate in any manner?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s step forward to Saturday, the day of the murder. Please give us an account of who
visited your mistress in the last…oh, twelve hours before her death.”

  The butler paled. “But—”

  “No need to reveal his name, Mr. Landis.”

  “Her first visitor was…a lord at about half past three.”

  “An elderly lord in his late eighties, was he not?” Wescomb asked.

  “Yes.”

  Turning toward the gallery, Wescomb delivered a knowing smile. “Such stamina at his age. I tip my hat to the man.”

  Keats joined in the light laughter that rippled through the crowd. It was a masterful moment.

  “Who else paid calls on Miss Hallcox that day?” Wescomb asked, not missing a beat.

  “A banker at half past five, and then the sergeant.”

  “Was Sergeant Keats expected that evening?”

  “My mistress did send him a note.”

  “When?”

  “At approximately six.”

  “Filling in her social schedule, was she?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. She usually didn’t send her gents any letters.”

  “Then how did she arrange these assignations?”

  “Spoke with them directly.”

  “So the note to Sergeant Keats was something unusual?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see what it contained?”

  “No.”

  “Come now, we all know that domestic staff peek at their employer’s correspondence.”

  “I didn’t. Neither did Tilly.”

  “That’s Miss Ellis, the lady’s maid?” A nod. “Was that Saturday a particularly busy day for Miss Hallcox?”

  “A bit busier than normal, sir.”

  “What color is the elderly lord’s hair?”

  Landis delivered a startled look. “Silver-white.”

  “What about the banker?”

  “Brown.”

  “And Sergeant Keats?”

  Landis stared up at the dock. “Dark brown, I’d say.”

  “Did any of the men who visited your mistress on that day have black hair? Or, perhaps, any of the servants?”