Madman's Dance (Time Rovers) Page 5

  “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.”

  Fisher retreated down the stairs, his shoulders hunched, appearing older than his fifty-plus years. In his distraction, he’d left the spare chair behind—not like him at all.

  What must it be like for the man? He’d painstakingly groomed Keats to take his place in the years to come. Now that dream was over, snuffed by the sergeant’s relentless drive to exceed his superior’s expectations, to make the grade. In his own way, Fisher had aided Keats in his destruction.

  There are no winners here.

  After he closed the door, Alastair sat next to the fire, trying to stave off the chill in his bones. His eyes drifted shut as he pulled Desmond Flaherty’s face from memory, letting the image flood through him, pushing through the shakes and the queasiness in his stomach. When the sensation faded, he studied himself in the small mirror above the basin.

  The face of the anarchist stared back. He closed his eyes and shifted back into his own form. This time, the sensation wasn’t as bone-jarring. Instead, it felt right.

  Until now, he’d never viewed the ability to go en mirage as a blessing, rather a blatant invitation to evil, a point Keats and he had argued repeatedly. He’d had no notion that the Transitives existed before Marda’s death. He had simply held the woman he loved while the ability crossed to him with her last breath. The Transitives had a name for it—the Rite de la Mort. His life had changed. That was many years ago and he’d steadfastly resisted the urge to indulge his “curse,” as he called it.

  Alastair had risked his career and even his life to hold that line. In the end, the other Transitives had won.

  But not for the reason they might believe.

  ~••~••~••~

  Thursday, 25 October, 1888

  Scotland Yard

  “It’s a load of bollocks,” Inspector Ramsey fumed, tossing the papers on his superior’s desk with disgust. “Keats is a damned liar. Flaherty would cut his throat right off, not stuff him in some box and ship him across the country like a bunch of apples.”

  Fisher retrieved Keats’ report, organizing it into a neat stack, unruffled by Inspector Ramsey’s outburst. “I know how much you detest the sergeant, but the fact remains he is one of us. To that end, you will conduct the most thorough investigation of your career. Do you understand?”

  Ramsey’s face flushed with anger. “Sir, I—”

  “What if this load of bollocks, as you call it, is the truth?”

  Ramsey settled back against the chair. It gave a decided squeak at his weight.

  “If he’s guilty…” The inspector paused and shook his head. “Bloody hell.”

  “If he’s guilty, then that’s his fate. But by God, Ramsey, it just doesn’t feel right.”

  “You’re too partial to the little bugger. It clouds your judgment.”

  Fisher’s moustache twitched. “I admit it, I am partial to Keats, but that doesn’t explain why my gut has been in a knot since this started.”

  Ramsey looked away, then down at his boots. “I…oh, shite,” he muttered under his breath. He looked up. “I don’t like it either, sir. It puts us all in a bad light. Keats is a swaggering little gnome, but he wants your job and he damned well won’t get it by strangling some pox-ridden tart.”

  “Blunt as usual, but correct. I want you to do two things: verify the validity of Keats’ alibi, and ask around about Inspector Hulme. Something’s off there.

  When he rose, Fisher added, “Oh, one other thing. Police Commissioner Warren has saddled us with some American reporter. He’s here in London doing a piece on Scotland Yard.”

  “Damned poor time for it,” Ramsey observed.

  “I pointed that out, but Sir Charles disagreed. Vehemently. Let’s see, I have the man’s card…here.”

  Ramsey took it, looked at the name and snorted. “Robert Anderson?” he read with a smirk. “We already got one, and ours is a Sir. Don’t need another.”

  “Common name, apparently,” Fisher replied. “Warren wants the world to know we’re going about this case totally without prejudice. I was against the notion, but I was overruled, yet again.”

  “Can’t someone else squire this fellow around?”

  Fisher looked him straight in the eyes. “There’s no one else I’d trust with this, Inspector.”

  “You always say I’m too blunt. I could say something wrong and it’ll end up in the newspaper.”

  “I’ve been given permission for this man to be fully involved in every portion of this investigation.”

  Ramsey stared in horror. “What? Is Warren mad?”

  “Very likely. So take this Mr. Anderson everywhere. Let him hear it all.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a wise idea, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be my head on the platter, not yours.”

  “But—”

  Fisher leaned forward. “It doesn’t matter, Martin. I’m not going to be here much longer. Warren is just looking for a reason to send me packing. We’ve never seen eye to eye. If my career is at an end, I want the truth out there for once.”

  Ramsey grunted. “I don’t think they want to know the truth, sir.”

  “That’s entirely possible. Either way, take this Anderson fellow under your wing. Show him what he needs to know. I leave it up to you.”

  A resigned nod. “Where do I find him?”

  “He’ll be at the Clarence at one sharp. I have no idea what he looks like. Warren didn’t bother to tell me that.”

  “I’ll find him. Reporters all look the same.”

  “If you find Keats, kick him in the arse for me, will you?”

  Ramsey nodded, a smile lighting up his face. “With pleasure, sir, right after I give him a swift one of my own.”

  Then the man was gone, his heavy boots thumping on the stairs.

  Fisher’s eyes fell upon Warren’s latest note. He reluctantly slit it open. It was almost a twin to the one he’d received the day before, and the day before that.

  He skimmed the message, pulling out the relevant passages. “Dismayed at my lack of progress. Wishes to see me promptly with a full report.” He crumpled the paper and tossed it toward the fireplace. It slowly unfurled, mocking him. With a low sigh, he collected his bowler and headed off for yet another dressing-down.

  What had his wife said over breakfast? ‘Let them sputter, J.R. They are in no better position than you. Only you can solve this case, and they know it.’

  Fisher smiled. Jane loved him so much, she never gave an inch.

  In the courtyard, the Rising Sun was bustling like any other pub in London. Maybe when he got back from Whitehall, he’d have a pint, even if he was on duty.
What would they do? Give him the sack?

  He laughed at the thought, and began to whistle as he headed for the far gate.

  Chapter 5

  “So what do you think?” Reuben asked, circling around the center of the room, arms extended like a dervish.

  “Ah…I…don’t know,” Alastair sputtered. One moment they’d been discussing a peculiar set of post-mortem findings, and then the next his fellow physician had hauled him to this house and proclaimed it should be his.

  Reuben abruptly halted. “There are two floors, three bedrooms, a large room near the kitchen for a cook or housekeeper, and an additional room next door that the tenants used for their shop. It’s not fancy, but the furniture comes with it and it’s near the train station.”

  The furniture was decent, the location ideal. Still, that didn’t help Alastair understand what his mentor was up to.

  “Reuben, I can’t afford a house,” Alastair protested. “I’ve some money, but—”

  “How much?”

  That was a rude question, at least from anyone else but Reuben Bishop. “About three hundred pounds now.”

  “Three hundred!” the man shouted. “I thought you were impoverished.”

  Alastair flooded with embarrassment. “Well, one hundred of it is from the Wescombs, to fund my work amongst the poor, so that’s not really mine, you see.”

  “And the other two hundred?”

  “Jacynda gave it to me to help me build my practice, but I prefer not to spend it on my personal expenses.”

  Reuben shook his head in dismay. “Good Lord, you must have Scottish blood in those veins.”

  Alastair bristled. “As a matter of fact, I do. Why does that matter?”

  “I’m not asking you to buy the bloody place, you know.”

  Alastair cranked an eyebrow upward. It was one thing for Lord and Lady Wescomb to act as his patrons, but Reuben’s intentions were confusing him.

  “Oh, dear,” the man groaned. “Here’s the truth: I’m a right bear as a landlord and Henny…Henrietta is very particular that my investment properties remain in good condition. Finding suitable tenants is difficult.”

  “Why do you think I would be suitable?”

  “You just would be. Now come, come, I haven’t shown the best part yet.” Reuben beckoned him forward, then unlocked a door and pushed it open. The room smelled stale. “Don’t mind the odor. A bit of scrubbing will do wonders.”

  It was actually two rooms. The front was rather large, opening onto the street. The other room was a bit smaller, but still quite adequate.

  “Do you see what I mean?” Reuben prompted, his eyes aglow.

  Alastair walked around the main room, letting his enthusiasm off its leash. “Big enough for a waiting room, and this…” he noted, moving into the smaller space, “is ideal for a surgery and an office.”

  Light clapping came from his companion. “So when do you wish to take possession of your new home, Doctor?”

  Reluctantly, Alastair shook his head. “I dare not. For all I know, Flaherty’s warning is still in effect. He was furious I came to Keats’ aid that night in Whitechapel, and he may well bomb the clinic if it reopens. If you’re concerned about your property, my tenancy could easily bring it to the ground.”

  “Then don’t open the clinic until Flaherty is caught. It will take some time to get matters in order anyway.”

  “He may still seek personal retribution,” Alastair protested.

  “Then wouldn’t it be better to be in your own home than in a boarding house? As I see it, if he were going to harm you, he would have done so by now. It’s been a fortnight, at least.”

  “I know, but…I have no equipment. I sold my benches.” Alastair wandered out into the bigger room again, his mind suddenly churning with possibility.

  “You have that hundred quid from the Wescombs. You could use it here,” Reuben prompted. “I know they’d approve.”

  What is happening? He didn’t dare think of—

  “How much?” Alastair asked, astonished.

  Reuben grinned. “Twenty shillings a week. I won’t need a deposit, and I’ll help you get the equipment at the best prices available.”

  Alastair cocked his head. “Why are you doing all this for me?”

  Reuben’s enthusiasm fell away, replaced by a thoughtful expression. “I had a wise advisor when I was first in practice. He helped me find my way. His only stipulation was that when I found a promising new doctor, I should aid him in the same manner. That’s the debt I’ll expect you to repay down the line.”

  “Who was this kind soul who gave you a start?”

  “A physician in Edinburgh.”

  “He must be very proud of you.”

  “I think he is, but he’s not said a word. Dr. Bell is not—”

  “Bell? Dr. Joseph Bell?” Alastair exclaimed. “But he’s one of the leading—”

  Reuben put his hand on Alastair’s shoulder. “Yes, that’s the man. One sharp-eyed, hard-edged fellow, but he taught me the profession. I’ll do the same for you, if you’re willing.”

  “My God,” Alastair whispered, humbled. Reuben was offering him the world.

  “As I remember, my reaction was precisely the same.”

  “I’ll accept, but only if you’ll introduce me to the fellow,” Alastair replied, grinning. “I’ve always wanted to meet him.”

  Reuben guffawed and they shook hands heartily. “I’ve already written him a letter making that very request. Come on, we’ll sign the papers and then have a celebratory luncheon. You can move in tomorrow. Henny can help you find a maid-of-all-work or a housekeeper, if you wish.”

  Alastair hadn’t even considered that. A house needed someone to watch over it. The solution came instantly.

  “No need,” he told him. “I know the perfect person, if she’ll accept.”

  ~••~••~••~

  “Anderson?” Ramsey called out.

  The reporter had brown hair and a crisp moustache. He looked up from the notebook he’d been studying and issued a quick nod. There was a pint in front of him, but Ramsey didn’t spy any of the telltale signs of a heavy drinker. Not all journalists would pass muster in that regard. Or coppers, either.

  “I’m Inspector Ramsey.” He didn’t bother to sit. There was too much to be done for them to be chatting about the weather. “Let’s get to it.”

  “As you wish, Inspector.” The man rose, tucked away the notebook and left the half-pint of ale on the table. Most of his ilk would have gulped it rather than waste the booze.

  Ramsey waited until they were on the street to open his barrage. “I hear I’m stuck with you on the soles of my shoes until further orders.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “How’d you manage that one?”

  “I know people.”

  “Warren?”

  A nod. “I wrote an article about Sir Charles’ exploits in the Sinai. He thought it flattered him.”

  “Did it?”

  “Not really. The folks in Chicago want to know what it’s like in London, so I’ve been here since the second Ripper murder.”

  “If you want to know about him, you have to talk to Inspector Abberline.”

  “I already have. Now I’m interested in the Yard’s latest case.”

  Ramsey groaned. “Everybody wants to know about Sergeant Keats.” He halted abruptly. “It’s like this, Anderson. We’ve got a mess here. The last thing I need is a reporter dogging my heels, but if Warren says you’re with me, that’s the way it has to be. In return, I expect only one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Honesty. Call it straight. If Keats killed that woman, he swings. If not, we’re barking up the wrong tree and it would do no good to hang an innocent man while the real murderer laughs at us.”

  “Is Keats innocent?”

  “That’s what I have to find out.” Ramsey hesitated for only a moment before detailing the sergeant’s alibi.

  Anderson mulled on the informat
ion as they continued down the street.

  “It sounds fantastical,” he noted after some time.

  “I agree.”

  Anderson arched an eyebrow. “I understand that you and Sergeant Keats have an adversarial relationship. That, in fact, you detest each other.”

  Ramsey eyed him. The reporter seemed to be very well informed for someone hailing from Chicago. How much had Warren told him?

  “We can’t stand each other. Been that way since the first time I saw the little runt.”

  “What if he murdered that woman?”

  “Then everything I’ve worked for over the past fifteen years goes to hell. It throws mud on all of us, don’t you see?”

  They paused at an intersection, waiting for a lorry to pass.

  “I’ll keep an open mind, Inspector,” Anderson replied.

  “Good.” Dodging between a hansom and a brougham, Ramsey followed up with, “Do me a favor, will you?”

  “Which is?” Anderson said, hurrying to catch up.

  “Remind me to do the same.”

  ~••~••~••~

  “My chest is much better,” Mrs. Butler said. She was sitting at the flimsy table in her minuscule hovel she and her son called home. “I’m coughing less and I don’t have to take that medicine you gave me.”

  “Excellent,” Alastair replied, pleased his treatment had a good result. Chest infections were often fatal. “I have some news of my own,” he began.

  Then he blurted it all out in a rush, though he’d not intended to. He still didn’t believe it himself. As he gave Mrs. Butler time to gather her wits, his mind flashed back to their initial meeting. In truth, he’d met her son first, as the lad lay in a street with a broken leg. His tending the boy had cost him his position with Dr. Hanson who had long frowned on his charity work. Despite Hanson’s theory that the poor were indolent and gin-soaked wretches, he’d found Mrs. Butler to be a hardworking woman. She’d already lost a husband and two other children to illness and that had bred a tenacity for survival.