Madman's Dance (Time Rovers) Page 8

  “I’d like to see them.” As well as Ramsey’s face when I deliver them to Chief Inspector Fisher.

  “They’re gone. Left a few nights ago with the casks.”

  “Flaherty took them?” Keats pressed.

  “Don’t know. I wasn’t on duty that night.” The man spat again.

  “Can we see inside the warehouse?”

  The fellow frowned. “Why do ya care about all this?”

  “’Cuz of Dillon,” Clancy replied. “He’s bad off now.”

  “Yeah. I heard that,” the man noted with a small shudder. “I’ll take ya inside, but I don’t want nothin’ to do with that Irishman. That’s pullin’ the devil’s tail, it is.”

  Keats took his time searching, though clearly the watchman wanted to be somewhere else.

  “Ya think all of it was here?” Clancy asked.

  “Not likely.”

  “I heard he had two loads of the gunpowder.”

  “He did, but I got half of it that night in Whitechapel. And a lot half load of rum,” Keats replied. “It’s how he hid it—rum on top of the load, gunpowder casks on the bottom.”

  “So what’re we lookin’ for?”

  “Fenian fairy dust,” Keats told him. That earned him a confused look.

  It wasn’t until they moved some barrels around that he found what he was looking for. Keats knelt and ran a finger through the black spot on the warehouse floor and smiled. Gunpowder. A bit farther away he ran his hand over something else and sniffed it, then hastily wiped his hand on his coat.

  When he stood, he wavered, dizzy.

  Clancy grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong with ya?”

  “Dynamite. It gives you a headache if it’s leaking. The nitroglycerine does it.”

  His companion frowned. “That’s not good, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Clancy’s frown transformed into a smile. “It’d be a right shame if Flaherty blew himself up, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it would.” He’d take my alibi with him.

  ~••~••~••~

  Cynda stood on the shoreline, hands on her hips. Across the water were the gray walls. Inside of those was a tall white tower. Maybe it was like the other place. Maybe they had a Mouse Lady and someone would feed her. But how would get she get there?

  She pulled the shawl tighter, puzzling as to why she had thought she could cross here. There were only two stubby piers in the middle of the river. Something was missing. She scratched her head, trying to make sense of the jumbled images floating through her mind.

  A boat glided by and a waterman called out, asking if she needed a ride. That confused her. There should be two of them in the boat, like last night. She shook her head and continued to stare at the open air above the piers. Her mind came up with something stone, really tall. But what was it? Looking back up the way she’d come, she saw what was missing.

  A bridge. Someone had stolen it.

  “Miss?” It was a man dressed in blue with a tall helmet. He had a kind face, or she would have run away. “Are you ill, miss?”

  Cynda shook her head and pointed toward the far shore. “I need to go…there.”

  “To the castle?”

  She didn’t think she wanted a castle. “Do crazy people live there?” she asked.

  “Sometimes. Years ago, I heard.”

  “Not now?”

  He shook his head and then pointed. “There’s a subway over there, miss. It’ll take you to the other side. Just mind your step on those stairs.”

  “Thank you.” She set off in the direction he’d indicated. The longer she studied the white tower, the more it didn’t seem right. It didn’t have any of those white columns like the other place. Still, across the water felt right so she kept hunting for the subway the blue-suited man had talked about.

  To her surprise the subway looked like a little hut. When she stepped inside, she realized that inside the hut was a hole in the ground. A man came out of it, then another. Subway. Did she like those? She didn’t know. This one had a stairway that spiraled deep into the earth. She started down. Each step increased her anxiety. Her heart sped up, her mouth went dry. A headache started up behind her eyes, thudding with each increasing heartbeat.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she peered into the giant iron tube that stretched in front of her. It wasn’t very wide. Though there were lights, it was hard to see because of the haze.

  Under the river.

  Condensation rippled down the walls as echoes assaulted her ears. Voices. Footsteps. She shivered, clutching the shawl tighter. She froze as a figure emerged from the mist. It was a man carrying a bag. Up the stairs he went, humming to himself. Then another man, this one limping with a cane. Then two women, their high voices resounding off the metal walls.

  As she edged into the tube, the flooring flexed beneath her feet. She shrieked and fell against a damp wall. She could feel the wall bending toward her. Fear gripped her and she began to cry. The iron tube would smother her, drown her, or crush her to death. She could feel its menace, hear the water searching for a way to get to her.

  She flew up the stairs, tripping on her skirts as she went.

  Once outside, she sped away as if something would snatch her, hurl her back into the subway’s mouth. Only when she was a safe distance did she sink to her knees, her chest heaving in panic.

  Subways were bad. Very bad. There had to be another way across the river. If not, she’d swim it. No matter what, she had to get to the other side.

  ~••~••~••~

  Fortified by a couple of pints of ale, Keats’ headache had eased but not the problem of how to find Flaherty.

  “How’d ya know about the dynamite?” Clancy asked him in a low voice as they exited the pub.

  “Worked for the railroad. Learned how to build tunnels.”

  “I guess if ya still got all yer parts, ya did all right.”

  “Wouldn’t want to do it again. I was young and foolish.”

  “Like now?”

  “Not so young, still foolish.”

  Clancy laughed. “Flaherty could have moved the goods anywhere.”

  “I agree. I think we might start on the second problem.”

  “Which is?”

  Keats told him about Flaherty’s daughter, how someone had taken her.

  Clancy looked amazed. “Ya think maybe he’s being forced to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s enough to make a man piss his trousers.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone messin’ about with Flaherty. I always thought he was the nastiest bastard in all London. Goes to show…” Clancy chuckled. “Ya got company, Sean.”

  “Rozzers?” Keats asked, looking around.

  “No, it was yer girl. I didn’t recognize her right off. She was headed toward the pub. Told ya she was a goer.”

  Keats turned, searching the street for Jacynda. “What is she doing here?” he grumbled, heading back the way they’d come.

  Clancy shook his head. “If ya have to ask that question, Sean, I worry about ya.”

  Cynda stood in the doorway, drawn by the sound of people and the smell of food. The aromas made her stomach ache, but the noise was too much so she didn’t go in. Why had she come here? Where was someone who could help her?

  Outside, she found the stairs. These didn’t plummet into the earth, but stopped at the river. The tide was coming in. Cynda gingerly descended to the water’s edge and tried to judge the distance to the other side.

  A wide stretch of dark water lay between her and her goal. At her feet were broken pots, pieces of rusty metal, a bottomless pail. Tying her shawl around her, she edged her way out across the short mud flat to the water. In the distance, she heard the solemn tolling of bells and the chug-chug of a steamer heading downriver.

  As she walked, the river wormed its way into her boots. She shook her feet, first one and then the other, like a cat who hates getting wet. The ground was uneven, treache
rous. The water dragged on her skirts and petticoats. Behind her she heard someone shout, but she ignored it, keeping the far shore in view.

  The first shiver shook her thin body like a baby would a rattle. The image of cold water closing over her face came unbidden. She stopped for a second, wanting to turn back. The shivering intensified.

  No. I have to go there.

  As the water reached her waist, she knew this was wrong. The current was too strong, pulling as the wet garments made each step harder. Cynda tried to turn, but something had caught one of her bootlaces. She pulled hard, but it wouldn’t give way. Frantic, she tried to wiggle the foot loose. When it came free, the current caught her and she flailed to regain her balance.

  A hand appeared near her, and she grabbed it.

  “Jacynda?”

  She stared at the man. He was like the others, but his eyes looked familiar above the heavy beard.

  “My God, what are you doing?” he asked.

  She found her voice. “How do you know my name?”

  Shooting a nervous glance at the growing crowd of onlookers, the man lowered his voice. “Why wouldn’t I know your name? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Who are you?” she asked, still grasping his hand to keep from being pulled away by the current.

  “I’m…” Another glance toward the onlookers. “a friend. Let’s get you out of here. We don’t want a constable bumbling into this.”

  She allowed him to put his arms around her waist and lead her to the shore. He seemed to know her, seemed to care. Not like the man in the carriage, the one who had said he was her brother.

  “That one’s not right in the head,” someone said as they came ashore.

  “If the rozzers get her, they’ll send her to Bedlam.”

  No! She tried to pull free, but her rescuer held her hand firmly.

  “I won’t let them take you there,” the man told her. “I promise.”

  She looked into his eyes and believed him.

  Chapter 9

  What a damned nightmare.

  They were going toward the north shore in a boat; Keats didn’t dare hire a hansom or take the train. When he’d mentioned the Thames Subway, Jacynda had panicked and tried to run away. So he’d hired a waterman to ferry them to Wapping.

  Clancy had called Keats a damned fool for risking his life over a crazy woman. That hadn’t set well. The Irishman was just worried about the reward money. Finally, Clancy had offered to deliver Jacynda to Whitechapel himself, but her level of trust was paper thin and only Keats seemed to be worthy of it.

  Ramsey would be hunting him in Whitechapel; that much Keats would wager. Still, he saw no alternative but to deliver her into the doctor’s hands. She was incapable of rational thought, and there were too many who would take advantage of her weakness.

  What if Alastair isn’t home? What will I do then? He couldn’t keep her with him, and in her condition he dared not leave her alone at the boarding house.

  Keats slipped a look at his companion. Jacynda was asleep on his shoulder, a ragged and filthy mess. The filth could be cleaned away. It was her docile behavior that frightened him. This woman would never have confronted the anarchists that night in Green Dragon Place, thrown herself into the middle of an affray. Something awful had happened, something that had broken her fiery spirit.

  By the time they reached Whitechapel he’d formed a plan of action, one that he hoped would allay suspicion: he would send a street urchin to the boarding house to summon Alastair on a medical call. It might work, even if Ramsey had the place under surveillance knowing it was only a matter of time before Keats visited his friend.

  That time had come.

  “Just a bit longer,” Keats urged. No reply. It was like walking with a lamppost for company. Jacynda’s shivering was worse now as her clothes slowly dried in the night air. His weren’t much better. He still felt water in his boots with every step.

  It took considerable effort to find Alastair’s new location.

  “Of all the times for you to move house,” Keats grumbled under his breath. They’d stuck to the back alleys, the passageways, and deserted areas, away from the main streets. It was a chore with Jacynda at his side. She moved slowly and just about everything frightened her.

  Keats studied the front door of Alastair’s new house like a copper. The doctor had chosen a good place to reside, though it was just too dangerous to march up and hammer on the door. With his companion in tow, Keats worked his way behind the building and was eventually rewarded by finding a back gate. There was a light in the rear of the house.

  Who else would be there? Perhaps Ramsey had laid a trap for him. His blood chilled at the thought. There was no other option but to knock and ask for help. Jacynda had put her life on the line for him more than once. It was only right that he do the same.

  “Stay here,” he advised softly, pointing to a patch by the fence. It was dry and relatively clean. “I’ll go see if Alastair’s home.” He gently pulled her shawl up, like a scarf. She obediently slid to the ground. Her acquiescence, though welcomed, was profoundly disturbing.

  His heart hammering, Keats rapped on the back door. Footsteps came his way.

  He shot a look back at Jacynda. She was right where he’d left her.

  What if Alastair can’t help her? What if she remains like this for the rest of her life?

  The door edged open. Keats let out a sigh of relief when he saw the doctor’s astonished face.

  “I am in desperate need of your help, my friend.”

  Alastair’s mouth fell open, then closed just as quickly. “Come in! Hurry, before someone sees you.”

  “One moment.” Keats hustled into the back yard and helped a bedraggled figure to its feet.

  Alastair bolted the door behind the pair of them and then ordered, “Go down the passage. Stay in the kitchen. There are no windows there.”

  “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “No. Mrs. Butler doesn’t move in until tomorrow.”

  Keats helped the figure sit in a chair and then removed the red shawl.

  “Jacynda?” Alastair said, astounded. She looked up at him with a lost expression, quaking intensely. “What has happened?”

  “Some sort of mental collapse,” Keats explained. “I found her in Rotherhithe wading into the Thames in some bizarre attempt to reach this side of the river.”

  “Why in the…” Alastair knelt and took one of her hands. It was icy. “Help me move her closer to the stove. I’ll make some tea.” Once she resettled, he stoked the fire and put on a kettle, shooting occasional worried glances toward his guests. “You look awful,” he observed to Keats.

  The fugitive mustered a game smile. “I know.”

  “Apparently, you are still unable to go en mirage.”

  “That continues to elude me.” Keats removed his boots and set them near the stove, draping his wet socks over them. He wiggled his pale toes. “Ah. That’s better.”

  “Fisher told me about your letter. Have you had any luck finding the Irishman?”

  “Not a bit of it, though I am getting closer to the explosives.”

  “Then that’s some good news. How are your injuries?”

  “Healing. Still can’t do heavy work.”

  Alastair knelt next to Jacynda, warming her hands between his. She looked toward him, confused. “Do you know who I am?”

  A slow shake of the head. “Not…right,” she said, pointing to her temple. Alastair leaned closer, thinking what he saw was a smudge of dirt.

  As he reached toward her, she shied backwards. “I won’t hurt you.” She closed her eyes as if anticipating great pain. Delicately moving her hair aside, he studied the round mark.

  “What in the devil…”

  “There is blood on the back of her collar, as well,” Keats added, shaking his head in despair. “I felt you were her best hope.”

  Alastair examined the wound at the back of her neck with great care, all the while feeling his anger
rise. Leery of frightening her, he went clinical to keep his seething emotions in check. “She’s been struck with something. It’s not fresh, though. A few days old.” He addressed Jacynda. “Who hit you?”

  “Macassar,” she said.

  “What?”

  “She’s not made a great deal of sense,” Keats explained. “I ask her questions and often she has no answers. She didn’t remember my name or yours, for that matter, but she insisted she had to get to this side of the river.”

  “What’s this?” Alastair carefully pulled her collar aside, making her tremble. He looked up, disgusted. “Thumb marks. Someone has attempted to strangle her.”

  “Good God,” Keats murmured.

  Jacynda looked up at the doctor as if he’d just appeared in the room. “Who are you?”

  He groaned. “Alastair. Alastair Montrose. We met at the boarding house.”

  She shook her head, brows furrowed. Then she turned to Keats. “You?”

  “Jonathon Keats. I’m with Scotland Yard. At least for the present.” She gave another shake of the head. Keats’ eyes filmed in sadness. “She wasn’t this bad a few nights ago.”

  “When was that?” Alastair asked.

  “The night Effington died. She found me in Rotherhithe. We went back to my room and—” Keats looked away, “she suddenly went hysterical, claiming that we were on a sinking ship. She said this temporary madness was because of her job, that she comes from the future. Quite impossible.”

  Alastair fixed him with a look. “Was that all that happened?” he asked evenly.

  Keats nodded too quickly for Alastair’s liking. Jacynda was rolling the edge of her shawl up and down in rhythmic fashion, watching them with childlike fascination.

  The kettle’s whistle cut through the air and Alastair found himself welcoming the distraction. He assembled the tea and returned with the pot, placing it on the table with two of the new cups Mrs. Butler had purchased. He’d expected happier circumstances for their first use. While he sliced the cheese, he debated. Even if Jacynda and Keats had become lovers, her condition rendered the question moot. There was no point in hiding the truth from his friend any longer.