Madman's Dance (Time Rovers) Read online

  Before Ramsey could burst out in fury, Fisher gave a quick tug on his sleeve. The inspector grudgingly returned to his seat.

  “Self-righteous bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Careful, Martin. They will be your masters soon enough.”

  “That may be true, but I’ll be biting them on the ankles as often as I can, that I promise.”

  No doubt you will.

  The prince’s spokesman cleared his throat. “Contrary to what my colleague in Home Office says, both His Royal Highness and Her Majesty hold deep regard for all our citizens, be they lesser or greater. The prince, in particular, has been dismayed at how this trial has brought turmoil to Scotland Yard, especially at a time when they have a myriad of other more important matters to attend to, including the safety of Her Majesty.”

  It was a strong rebuke delivered in velvet tones. The Home Office man fell silent, his arms crossed in sullen displeasure.

  Coleridge nodded his approval. “Very well, Mr. Kingsbury, bring me your new evidence. The Crown Prosecutor may file objections as he chooses, then I shall weigh as to whether the convicted man deserves to be set free or make a second and final journey to the hangman.”

  “My lord, we hope that you might make that decision as promptly as possible. This whole ordeal has been incredibly difficult for the sergeant.”

  “No doubt. Just send me your evidence, sir. I will give it due consideration as my schedule permits.”

  “As your lordship pleases,” Kingsbury said.

  In the hallway outside the chambers, Ramsey whispered, “Surely they can’t have the fix in all the way to—” he gestured with his head toward the closed door.

  “Let’s pray the rot hasn’t risen that high,” Fisher replied.“If so, this mighty empire is foundering on the rocks.”

  Chapter 8

  Upon her return, Cynda found Morrisey awake, reading a newspaper. At his elbow was a cup of tea. The furniture had been moved to create an open space, suggesting he’d practiced his Tai Chi during her absence. Much like a chameleon, he was rapidly adapting to his surroundings. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  He studied her clothes with a critical eye. “Is that what is required for an inquest?”

  “No. Just trying to be invisible. Not everyone knows my brain is back from vacation, and I’d like to leave it that way.” The hat and veil came off immediately, followed by the mantelet. “That’s better. I can actually see.”

  She stepped inside her bedroom and closed the door. A rummage in the wardrobe produced her old costume, all patched and faded. Waltzing through the front lobby looking like a beggar would invite problems. She’d have to slip out some side door. The spare room at Pratchett’s Book Shop would have been an ideal solution, but she had to admit she liked a hot bath every now and then.

  “How’s your time lag?” she called out, pulling on the worn skirt.

  “Better. I had a long nap and some tea.”

  “Excellent.” Not as good as sex, but it works.

  “I gather you’re changing clothes,” he called back. “Do I need to do the same?”

  “Yes. We’re headed for the East End. Dress downmarket. We got away with what we were wearing this morning, but at night it’s best to blend in.”

  She heard noises from the sitting room. “Luckily, I brought something appropriate,” she heard him say. “I gather the garments can have lice or fleas in them if you buy them secondhand here.”

  “He did read the run reports,” Mr. Spider announced. “Sobering thought.”

  Morrisey would remember all those details. She just remembered most of them.

  Cynda heard him open his pasteboard suitcase. His boots hit the floor with two pronounced thumps.

  “I met up with Alastair Montrose at the inquest,” she reported.

  “Oh.” Then silence.

  “Morrisey?”

  More silence.

  “Hello, boss?”

  “One moment. I’m still dressing.” Now that was so Victorian.

  Oh, she was enjoying this. How many Rovers got to mess with the Genius? “The first time you were here, you saw me in a bathtub. Why can’t I see you in your underwear?”

  “Because this Victorian underwear is embarrassing,” he groused. “All right, I’m decent.”

  She rolled her eyes and stepped out, still buttoning her bodice. He was tugging on his boots. Other than his clean-shaven face, he could easily be mistaken for some loser in the East End. The clothes were perfect.

  Then she remembered his special ability. “Why don’t you go en mirage? It’d be easier.”

  “This takes less concentration.”

  “Which means you don’t shift often,” she replied.

  He seemed surprised at her knowledge. “No, I don’t,” he said. “No real point.” He mussed up his hair and stuck on the slouch cap. He looked disreputable. “Stop fretting. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

  “Well, that’s at least one of you,” Mr. Spider said, peering into her boss’ luggage. He jumped out of the way as Morrisey snapped it shut and stashed it by the couch. “Tidy, isn’t he?”

  Overly.

  They retraced some of their route through Whitechapel and Spitalfields. While Morrisey was methodically cataloguing streets and sights, she was listening to the ebb and flow of conversations.

  “The smell is so strong here,” he remarked, his nose wrinkling in spite of himself. “I knew it would be bad, but…” Just then, his attention was drawn to a constable standing on the other side of the street.

  “They’re all over the place. Still hunting the Ripper,” she explained. Pity they never catch him.

  “I’ve read about all this and seen some of the photographs, but nothing prepares you for the reality,” he mused, turning in a full circle to get a panorama.

  “No. Nothing can.”

  “How do you cope?” he asked suddenly. “One moment you’re there, and then you’re here. There is such a difference between the two worlds.”

  She wondered if he’d understand. “That’s part of the thrill. Here you have to live by your wits. At home…” She shrugged. “I just run afoul of the rules all the time.”

  He turned cocky. “So do I. I’m a wanted man now,” he said in a low voice. “I find that amusing.”

  Until they throw your butt in jail.

  A voice called out to them. Cynda turned, knowing it sounded familiar. A bootblack. A young one.

  “Miss Jacynda!” the boy cried. He grinned widely as she worked on his name. His face was grubby, like most of them, but there was a brightness to his eyes that she recognized.

  “Hello there, how have you been?” she said, buying time. A young kid about twelve. As he moved forward toward her, she noted the limp. That helped.

  “I’m right fine.” He peered up at her quizzically. “How ’bout you?”

  “I’m much better.” He opened his mouth to help her out, but she held up a hand. “Let me do it.” Yes, that’s it. “David Edward Butler.”

  He cheered and broke out in a smile. “You remember me! You didn’t the last time.” Then he gave Morrisey a curious look. “Who’s this gent?”

  “Davy, this is Mr. Morrisey.”

  “Ah, yes.” Morrisey offered a hand, and the two of them shook. “You are the son of Dr. Montrose’s housekeeper.”

  “Right you are! Pleased to meet you, sir.” Then David peered down at her companion’s boots and shook his head in mock despair. Cynda winked at her boss and he took the hint. As Davy applied his talents, she used the opportunity to solicit the kid’s street knowledge

  “We’re looking for a missing Irish girl. About sixteen or so. Her name’s Fiona. We think she’s somewhere in Whitechapel.”

  “What does she look like?” Davy asked, applying the polish.

  Cynda did as best she could with what Flaherty had told her.

  Davy’s eyes rose from his work. “Lots of Irish girls in Whitechapel.”

  �
��I know. I just thought I’d tell you in case you hear something.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Do it carefully,” Morrisey warned. “There are people who won’t want her found. It might be dangerous.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Davy signaled for him to switch feet. Then he looked up again, frowning. “You sound posh, but your clothes aren’t. You slummin’?”

  It was Morrisey’s turn to wink. “Something like that.”

  “Ah, well, that’s all right then.” The kid went back to work with a vengeance.

  A block after they left Davy behind, Cynda pointed toward a puddle of muddy water. Before she could explain, Morrisey walked through it to obscure some of the bootblack’s handiwork, which was clearly out of place with his garb.

  “Quick study,” the spider observed from her shoulder.

  Too quick. Those kind usually get in trouble.

  It took her some time to relax. It was bad enough she was reacquainting herself with 1888, but having a beginner in tow just made it harder. She fretted about every seedy character who eyed them, the thick traffic, the pickpockets.

  “I’m fine,” her companion said. “Stop worrying.”

  “I’ll try.”

  With each pub, dining hall, and street market they visited, she felt herself slipping back into the rhythm of Victorian London. It felt right. Every now and then she’d whisper some bit of advice to Morrisey and he’d nod in response. He rarely asked questions, but his attention remained sharply focused. They’d chatted with newspaper boys, costermongers, a couple of whores, a butcher, and a girl selling milk. Morrisey hadn’t complained once, not about the throng of people or their lack of bathing habits. By now he should be begging for fresh air.

  Points for style, boss.

  The strangest thing was the contented look on his face. She hadn’t expected that. “You act as if you’re enjoying yourself,” she observed.

  He offered his arm and she took it, as would be expected. “I am, in many ways.”

  “Why?”

  “At home, I’m too well known. I’m stared at all the time if I go out in public. It’s one of the reasons I keep out of view.” His expression transformed into a genuine smile. “Here, I’m no one. It’s refreshing.”

  She hadn’t ever thought of that. “It must be weird to be so famous.”

  “It’s a double-edged sword. I see why Harter hides himself away like this. It has a certain appeal.”

  Along with some downsides.

  Not wanting to ruin his good mood, she said, “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint. Watch what you say. The pub will be crowded.”

  The Ten Bells was packed, as usual. After muscling their way to the bar and claiming their drinks, they found a spot in the back of the room.

  “Right friendly place, ain’t it?” Morrisey remarked. His thick working-class accent sounded natural. He had the advantage on her: he was a native.

  “Not hearin’ much that helps us, though,” she replied, trying to match him.

  “Well, at least the ale’s worth the time,” he said, taking another sip and smacking his lips.

  She nearly burst out laughing. If the Vid-News reporters ever caught wind of T.E. Morrisey slumming in 1888 London, their readership would double.

  “Is it always like this?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded. “Friday’s a holiday. They want to get a head start on the drinkin’.”

  “No, no, he’s good for it!” someone shouted above the din. “They’re all crooked, those rozzers. Don’t want to pay for a leg-over like the rest of us.”

  That generated raucous laughter. To her astonishment, Morrisey called out, “Why pay for what ya get for free?”

  Before she could issue a warning, a man answered, “Right ya are, sor. That’s what I’m sayin’.”

  “I’m sure I saw him with old Polly,” another said. “He’s got to be the Ripper. How else could he get away with it?”

  “I bet he was goin’ to do that posh bint like the others, but he heard ’em comin’ and ran away,” a woman said.

  “Not that rozzer,” a young woman piped up. “He’s a good sort. He’d slip me tuppence every now and then, tell me to get home safe.”

  “Oh, I’d slip ya brass too, but you’d have to earn it,” a man said, elbowing her.

  “I know yer kind, Tom. Yer all talk.” More rude laughter.

  “I heard someone spoke up for him. Some Irish girl,” another man added. “She’s lucky Flaherty gave the word or she’d be payin’ for that dearly.”

  “Yes, she was lucky,” the woman said pensively. “But it was the right thing to do.”

  “I wouldn’t do that for no rozzer,” the one called Tom shot back. “Ya heart’s too big, Mary. Ya can’t see the truth for what it is.”

  Mary?

  Cynda thought she’d seen her before. Young woman. Red shawl, no hat. Some night in… She couldn’t quite remember. It had been in front of the Ten Bells. Then it fell into place.

  “What’s wrong?” Morrisey asked.

  “Nothin’. Done with yer pint?” she asked, working hard to keep in character.

  He took a final sip. “Ready.”

  Once they were back on the street, she leaned close and delivered him the stock lecture about blending in.

  “I think I did rather well,” he said peevishly.

  “You did, but you’re always supposed to be part of the scenery.”

  “If I remember, you’re not very good at that, either. Is that why you dragged me out of there?”

  “Part of it.” Cynda took his arm. “The other part’s the downside of being a Rover.”

  “Which is?”

  “Seeing people who are going to die.”

  “They’re all dead, Jacynda,” he replied gently.

  “Yes, but I know how she dies, when…where.” Every damned detail.

  Morrisey looked puzzled. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Mary Jane Kelly. She was the woman in the pub talking about how good Keats was to her.” Cynda watched as the name hit home.

  “The Ripper’s next victim,” he murmured.

  “This Friday, early in the morning, in Dorset Street.” She’d not taken him there during their tour. That would have been ghoulish.

  He looked away, his mind somewhere else. If he’d seen the crime scene photos…

  You shouldn’t have to face this.

  It was one of the hardest things that a Rover had to handle: everyone you met was dead. Some of them would haunt you forever. For her, it was Kate Eddowes: laughing, playfully putting her hand on the shoulder of the man who’d mutilate her in Mitre Square a few minutes later.

  “Look, you can’t stay here,” she pleaded. “We’ll find somewhere else for you to go—”

  “No,” he retorted, “I need to be here.” His voice went rough. “This…” he said, gesturing around him at the teeming streets, “is real. I made this possible. Why shouldn’t I see the human consequences of my so-called genius?”

  “Only if you can handle it. Not everyone can.”

  Silence. He took her arm again. “Where to now?” he asked, his tone flat. That told her the subject was closed.

  “I want to check in a few more places and see if we can pick up any word of Fiona.”

  He fell in step next to her, face somber. “I don’t understand. You haven’t asked anyone about the missing girl. How can you find her that way?”

  “Sometimes, all you have to do is listen.”

  ~••~••~••~

  Wednesday, 7 November, 1888

  Rose Dining Room

  To Satyr’s relief, Tobin was not present at the breakfast meeting. That would have generated a major incident, and he wasn’t ready to eliminate his rival. The Ascendant was just sitting down when he arrived.

  “Good morning, sir,” Satyr greeted pleasantly, laying his hat and coat aside. He put on his best manners, hoping to keep his superior open and sociable. Perhaps then he could begin
to figure out what was going on.

  “Mr. S.,” was the cool reply. The Ascendant opened up his newspaper. “What is this? A stay of execution? What in heaven for?”

  “New evidence, I gather,” Satyr said. The news had pleased him immensely. It had never been his intention to ensnare a Scotland Yard detective in Nicci’s murder. He’d just employed Keats’ form because it seemed the best way to obtain the information he wanted.

  Satyr sat with a flourish and then rang the bell. Two waiters came through the door immediately, hands cradling plates and bowls filled with hot food.

  His superior waited until the servers were done and the door closed behind them before he replied. He dropped the paper on the table. “Well, won’t matter anyway.”

  “Why not?” Satyr asked, picking up the lid to the sausages. The scent was erotic.

  “Soon a man’s guilt or innocence will be weighed by a higher authority than the courts.”

  “How soon?”

  “Lord Mayor’s Day.”

  From Satyr’s perspective, it was a day best kept to one’s rooms, as getting around the streets of London was penance. Give the citizenry a day off and they shamelessly exploited it.

  “Is that when you’re delivering the explosives?” he asked pointedly.

  The Ascendant gave him a sidelong glance. “I have a couple of tasks for you and I want them performed promptly, without error, unlike some of your previous efforts.”

  Satyr halted mid-chew and then washed the bite of egg down with a sip of tea. “Such as?” he asked.

  “Kill the Fenian.”

  “You should note that Flaherty’s death will risk fanning Irish anger.”

  “Then make it look like a Jew did it. That way the Irish will take their anger out on the Hebrews, not us. And remove his daughter, as well,” the Ascendant added, daintily buttering a piece of toast. “She is superfluous at this point.”

  Professionals do not kill innocents.

  The Ascendant noted his silence. “If you do not wish to follow my orders, I will give Tobin the job, at which time you will no longer be considered Lead Assassin. Do you understand?”