Madman's Dance (Time Rovers) Read online

  “No.”

  “To your knowledge, had Sergeant Keats ever visited Miss Hallcox’s bedroom before?”

  Landis stiffened. “Not that I am aware.”

  “Then how did he know where it was?”

  “I can’t say, my lord. Perhaps the mistress told him.”

  Wescomb shifted closer to the man. “I visited Miss Hallcox’s residence and I inspected that set of stairs that lead to the second floor and your mistress’ bedroom. The only vantage point from which you might have seen the killer was from the side hall. Is that where you were?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “By the time someone is climbing the stairs, only his back is visible. How can you account for your initial testimony to the police that you saw the sergeant’s face?”

  “Ah, I…”

  “Mr. Landis?” Wescomb prodded.

  “I thought I saw him.”

  “Mr. Landis, I remind you that you are under oath.”

  “Ah…” The butler went pale. He swallowed heavily as his eyes tracked around the room. “I—”

  “Mr. Landis, please answer the question,” the judge interceded.

  “I didn’t see his face, only the back of him.”

  “Was he wearing his hat and coat?” Wescomb asked.

  “Yes. I called out to him, but he ignored me.”

  “So all you saw was the back of a man clad in his outer garments climbing the stairs. Why did you think it was Sergeant Keats?”

  “He was short.”

  “So are a lot of men in London, Mr. Landis. In fact, in this courtroom there are a number of men of reduced stature.” Wescomb tugged on his waistcoat. “One final question, Mr. Landis. What was it that kept you so engaged that you missed the killer’s departure?”

  The butler’s face flushed. “I was…instructing the downstairs maid in domestic matters.”

  “Domestic matters?” he asked in a jovial tone. “I think not, Mr. Landis.” He swung away from the man and addressed the courtroom. “On the contrary, is it not true that while your mistress was suffering her death agonies, you were engaged in sexual liberties with the maid?”

  “I didn’t know!” the man howled. “God, I didn’t know he would kill her!”

  “No, you didn’t, just as you cannot be sure that it was Sergeant Keats upstairs with your mistress.” A palpable pause. “I have no further questions.”

  Arnett rose. “Has someone put pressure upon you to change your original testimony?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why did you say you saw Sergeant Keats’ face when you were questioned by the police?”

  “It was him. It had to be! No one else would hurt her.”

  So you’d like to believe.

  “No further questions, my lord.”

  The next witness stood rigidly in the witness box, her eyes darting nervously eyeing the people around the room. When she was handed the Bible, she swore the oath in a quaking voice.

  Arnett rose. “Is Annie Crickland your real name?”

  “Yes,” she replied, “though I’m called Red Annie on account of my cheeks.”

  “Where in Whitechapel do you live, madam?”

  “Oh, here and there, wherever I can find a place to lay my head.”

  “No fixed abode then?”

  “No, sir,” she mumbled, looking down.

  “Do you frequent the doss houses?”

  “If’n I have the money, sir. They’re better’n the streets. Rozzers won’t let you sleep if you’re out there.”

  How true. As a constable, Keats had been ordered to keep the poor wretches on the move all night. It was no wonder they were exhausted and couldn’t work the next day. He’d skirted the rule every chance he got.

  “On the evening of the thirteenth of October, did you encounter the prisoner at any time?”

  “Yes, sir, near the White Hart.”

  “That’s on Whitechapel High Street, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing in that area?”

  Keats ground his teeth. Arnett was going to make this hard for Annie, and the woman didn’t deserve it.

  “I was having a wee nip to keep the cold away,” she told him, raising her chin in defiance.

  “Even though the Whitechapel murderer is still at large?”

  She shuddered at the mention of the Ripper. “Yes, sir.”

  “What did the prisoner say to you?”

  “He wanted me to go down an alley with him.”

  Keats groaned to himself.

  “For illicit purposes?” Arnett asked, pouncing on her response.

  Wescomb was up again. “Leading the witness, your lordship.”

  “I agree. Do watch that, will you?” Hawkins requested.

  “As your lordship pleases,” the prosecutor replied smoothly. “What was the prisoner’s purpose with you, Miss Crickland?”

  “He wanted to ask me questions.”

  “Why not do that on the street, in plain view?”

  “Not safe that way,” Annie replied. “Some folks don’t look kindly if you talk to the rozzers.”

  “What did he ask you?”

  “If I knew anything about that Irishman and all that gunpowder he’s got.”

  The spectators started murmuring amongst themselves and it took Hawkins to bring the room to order. Keats chuckled to himself. Someone hadn’t bothered to tell Annie that the explosives were not to be mentioned.

  “Mr. Arnett, this is your first warning,” a glaring Hawkins announced.

  “Yes, my lord.” Arnett turned his attention to Annie, who seemed confused at all the fuss. “Confining your answers to those regarding the prisoner only, has he at any time offered you money in exchange for certain favors?”

  Annie frowned. From Keats’ experience, she didn’t like toffs much, especially ones who talked down to her.

  “If you mean did he go for an upright, no. He’s not that way.”

  There was tittering in the court. Keats fought to keep the smirk off his face.

  “Yet he asked you to go down an alley with him.”

  “I already told you why he did that.”

  “Did he give you money?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “A shillin’. It got me a bed for a few nights.”

  “He paid you a shilling for information? That’s quite generous. Are you sure it was only that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have been arrested,” Arnett said, leafing through his notes, “three times for solicitation and once for stealing a loaf of bread.”

  “I have, sir.”

  “So you admit to being a woman on the wrong side of the law?”

  Annie’s chin raised again, fire in her eyes. “If it comes to starvin’ or goin’ with a punter, I’ll do what I must to eat.”

  “So offering your services to a police officer would allow you a chance to ply your trade unhindered, am I right?”

  “No, it’s not like that. The rozzers don’t do that.”

  “Why not? Who would you complain to?” Arnett pressed.

  “They don’t do that,” Annie repeated.

  “So you are saying that the prisoner has never once offered to pay you for sexual favors or to trade those favors for a blind eye?”

  Keats’ gut knotted. He’s making me sound like a moral degenerate.

  “He’s not like that!” the witness retorted, glaring at the barrister. “Never has been.”

  That’s it Annie! Give him one on the shins.

  “Have you heard that he’s ever made such an offer to any of the other unfortunates?”

  “No,” Annie replied. “He’s just good with us. He gives us money, tells us to get to a doss house so Old Jack won’t find us.”

  “How eminently philanthropic,” Arnett replied sarcastically. “At what time did you speak with the prisoner?”

  The high color in Annie’s cheeks faded. “I’m not sure. I think it was going on ten.�
��

  “Could it have been earlier than ten?” Arnett pushed.

  “Maybe. The last time I remember, it was just after eight. I’d had a bit of supper and was walking toward Gunthorpe Street. I went into the pub for a time.”

  “So you cannot say with any certainty that you saw the prisoner at ten that evening.”

  “No, sir. But he didn’t do it. He’s not that kind.”

  “That will be all, Miss Crickland.”

  Wescomb rose. “I have no questions of this witness.”

  The woman slowly made her way back to where she’d been sitting amongst the other witnesses. From the expression on her face, Keats could tell she felt she’d let him down.

  Sorry I got you into this, Annie.

  Chapter 21

  2057 A.D.

  TEM Enterprises

  Cynda had just added the extra moat when the bald man reappeared, beckoning to her. “Will this hurt?” she asked, edgy.

  “No.” Dr. Weber pulled a small device out of his pocket. “I will place this on your arm, and you will feel a slight tingle.”

  “Is that all?” A nod. “Why do I have to have it?”

  “It will make you calmer.”

  Cynda frowned. She felt calm enough, at least when he wasn’t around.

  “Roll up your sleeve and let’s get this done.”

  She did as he asked, and felt the pressure on her arm. As he’d said, there was a slight tingle.

  “I will come back tomorrow and administer another dose. In time, we’ll switch to a chip that will deliver the medication.”

  “What’s a chip?” she asked.

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” he responded breezily as he packed away his things.

  Cynda never liked it when they told her that. “Can I go now?” she asked, wanting to get back to her castle.

  “No, just stand here for a minute or two. I want to make sure there is no reaction.”

  “How do you know if it’s not okay?” she asked.

  “Hmm? Oh, it will be,” he replied dismissively.

  As she waited, she stared at her arm. It didn’t look any different.

  “Will it turn colors?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She began to feel warm. Too warm, like someone was holding her arm over a fire. “Is it supposed to be hot?”

  The bald man ignored her, tapping on that little tablet of his. Click. Click. Click.

  Tiny ants began a march up her forearm. They felt like they were on fire. More of them now.

  “It’s getting very hot,” she said.

  “It’s just your imagination.” Click…click…

  The long trail of ants coursed up her shoulder, encircling her neck. She wiped some sweat off her forehead. Her heart pounded and her stomach turned over. And over.

  Click…click…click...

  The sound grated on her. “Don’t do that.”

  The bald man looked up. “I must make notes about your treatment.”

  The clicking noise continued, digging into her flesh like glittering knives. She tried to hum to cover the sound, but it didn’t work.

  Click…click…click…

  The ants were in her chest and head now. Whole caravans of them, streaming fiery trails of fury behind them.

  She took a step forward. “I said don’t do that!”

  “Oh, do be quiet!” he snapped. “I can’t make notes if you’re talking the whole time.”

  CLICKCLICKCLICKCLICKCLICK

  “Stop it!” She pulled the device out of his hands and slung it away. It arced high in the air, then gravity kicked in and it plummeted to the ground. Skidding in a shower of sparks along the walkway, it impacted a wall, disintegrating into dozens of expensive pieces.

  “What the hell—” Weber began.

  Her clenched fist hit his jaw a second later.

  “She just hit me,” the psychiatrist gurgled around the compress on his bloody mouth. “I gave her the medication and then she hit me.”

  “I told you she didn’t want it,” Morrisey grumbled. He gave Fulham a quizzical look.

  His assistant leaned close and whispered, “The physician had to give her a sedative. He suspects it was a reaction to the medication, that it put her into a blind rage. He anticipates that she will return to her mellow self in a few days.”

  “I’ve never seen one like that,” Weber muttered. Dabbing at his jaw, he winced. “Inverse reaction. Very rare.” Then he brightened. “This will make a great research paper.”

  Morrisey’s patience fled. “Fulham, get this insufferable bastard out of here, will you?”

  “With considerable pleasure,” his assistant replied.

  Weber puffed up. “I refuse to come back. I don’t want to be anywhere near that mad woman again.”

  Perfect.

  ~••~••~••~

  Thursday, 1 November, 1888

  Old Bailey (Central Criminal Courts)

  As Alastair waited in the witness box, memories threatened to overwhelm him. The last time he’d been called to testify was at Marda’s inquest, to explain why he’d killed a man. This time, the life of his closest friend lay in the balance.

  He’d slept little the night before, fretting over what sorts of questions he would face. Arnett had clearly impugned his honor during yesterday’s session, and he knew the prosecutor would continue that onslaught today.

  After the oath, Arnett opened with the question the doctor had anticipated.

  “How long have you been involved in forensics, Dr. Montrose?”

  “Only a very short time.”

  “A month…a fortnight?”

  “I officially began working with Dr. Bishop on the fourteenth of this month after the Hallcox post-mortem.”

  “Ah, so you are a fledgling. Do you enjoy the work?”

  Enjoy? Alastair cocked his head. “I find it…rewarding.”

  “Why did you decide to take up this profession?”

  “It is a fascinating one, and Dr. Bishop is an excellent teacher. I feel it holds great promise.”

  “I understand that you are a close personal friend of the prisoner.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you not believe it a conflict of interest to assist at the victim’s post-mortem, knowing that your close friend was a suspect?”

  “On the contrary, I did not know Keats was involved in the case. We were not told that until the following morning.”

  “Come now, the prisoner is your best friend. Surely you would have known—”

  “No, I did not.” Alastair fought to keep his anger in check. Wescomb had warned him that if he lost his temper, Keats would suffer.

  “You are under oath, Doctor,” Arnett replied.

  “I swear I did not know until after we delivered the post-mortem report.”

  “Is it not true that you were once in court regarding the murder of a man in Wales?”

  Here it comes. Alastair forced any reaction from his face, though his gut somersaulted. “I testified at an inquest, yes.”

  “Why were you in the witness box?” Arnett challenged. “Was it because you were the cause of a man’s death?”

  “I must object, my lord,” Wescomb interjected. “Dr. Montrose’s personal history is of no import in this case. He does not sit in the dock for Miss Hallcox’s murder.”

  “No, but he might feel inadvertent sympathy for his friend, having once faced the rope in Wales,” Arnett countered.

  “I must agree,” Hawkins intoned. “Answer the question, Dr. Montrose.”

  Alastair took a deep breath. “I was summoned to testify regarding the events surrounding the death of the woman I loved, and the man who murdered her.”

  Gasps came from the courtroom.

  “I have no further questions to put to this witness at this time, your lordship,” Arnett concluded smugly.

  Wescomb rose. “Just to clear the air, what were the findings from that inquest in Wales?”

  “That my actions were in self-
defence,” Alastair replied.

  “Thank you. Since Mr. Arnett has brought up the subject, did that experience in Wales give you particular sympathy for Sergeant Keats?”

  “Yes. I also know what it is like to be falsely accused.”

  Murmurs flew through the courtroom. Alastair allowed himself to relax. Arnett’s ploy had failed.

  Lord Wescomb shifted directions. “Did you treat Sergeant Keats after his injury at the hands of a Fenian anarchist?”

  “Yes.”

  “How serious were those injuries?”

  “Quite serious. He had a severe scalp laceration, a concussion, and a broken rib.”

  “How was his recuperation progressing at the time of the murder?”

  “He was improving, though still unsteady on his feet and easily fatigued. I recommended rest.”

  “In your professional opinion, would Sergeant Keats have the strength to strangle a woman in his debilitated condition?”

  “It would be extremely difficult, given the broken rib.”

  “Even if he employed the sash from her robe?”

  “It still would be very difficult.”

  Wescomb paused to let that settle in the jury’s mind. “Is it true that you conducted further forensic studies in an effort to determine the height of the murderer, Doctor?”

  “Yes, based on post-mortem evidence.” Alastair looked up at the judge, his heart in his throat. “If a demonstration is permitted, my lord?”

  Hawkins took his time with the answer. “Providing it is in good taste.”

  “It shall be, my lord. I would ask that my assistant join me at the front of the room.”

  “I shall permit it.”

  A figure rose and made her way forward, accompanied by whispers in the audience. The judge banged the noise back into silence.

  “Who is this woman, Dr. Montrose?” he asked.

  “This is Mrs. Butler, my housekeeper. She is of similar height to the deceased, my lord, and so will serve in Miss Hallcox’s stead during the demonstration.”

  “I see. Pray, do not be theatrical about this.”

  “In no way, my lord.”

  With a nod from Alastair, Mrs. Butler turned her back to him. “Miss Hallcox,” he explained in a clear voice, “stood five feet, four and three-quarter inches tall without footwear, as she was at the time she was murdered. As Dr. Bishop has indicated, she was strangled from the rear. At this point, I ask Mr. Kingsbury to join us. Mr. Kingsbury is five feet six and one-half inches, which is very close to the prisoner’s height and will serve as a model for this demonstration.”