Madman's Dance (Time Rovers) Read online

  “She did not lie to you, Keats,” Alastair informed him quietly. “She is from the future.”

  “Nonsense!” the sergeant spluttered, hot tea splashing over the edges of his cup as he replaced it firmly on the saucer. “If she’s going mad, just tell me. Don’t cloak it as some ridiculous tale.”

  “It is not a ridiculous tale. I have seen her travel into the future.”

  “Nonsense,” Keats repeated. In his distraction he was stirring the tea, though he’d added nothing to it.

  “Remember that night when she was knifed in the alley, and no one could find her? She went to her time to be healed. The knife had slit her lung. She would have died here.”

  Keats’ face darkened. “I simply refuse to believe that you—you, of all people—would accept the ramblings of an obviously misguided woman as truth. You’re so under her spell that you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I saw the technology she carries with her,” Alastair insisted, his voice rising. “It was no parlour trick.”

  Keats opened his mouth to deliver a broadside, then stopped. “My God, you’re serious.”

  “If you handed me a Bible, I’d swear upon it.” Alastair took a deep breath. “Her lover, Mr. Stone, was from the future as well. That is why she dared not go to the police. As she put it, how do you solve the murder of a man who hasn’t been born yet?”

  Keats rose from his chair and paced in the small room, his face wrinkled in thought. As he passed Jacynda, she shyly pointed at the cheese. He handed her some and she started to nibble on it, watching him the entire time.

  Keats finally came to rest in his chair.

  “This is too outlandish to believe,” he declared with a shake of the head. “It can’t be possible to journey through time.” He looked back up at Alastair. “Can it?”

  Sensing an opening, Alastair pressed his advantage. “Yet it is possible to send wireless messages through the air, to light whole streets with electricity. We even journey by train beneath London’s streets. Feats that would have seemed remarkable to people a hundred years ago!”

  Keats stared at Jacynda for a long time. She was nibbling on a second piece of cheese. “She gave me a list of Effington’s warehouses. I wondered at the time how she’d gotten them all. It must have taken a great deal of effort to collect that information.”

  “Not with her contacts in 2057.”

  For a moment, it looked to Alastair as if Keats were coming to terms with the concept. Then he shook his head. “I cannot accept this. I admit that she acts in an unusual manner most of the time, but to believe it is because…” His brows furrowed.

  “You know I am not given to exaggeration, Keats. Remember, I saw the technology myself. She used it on you after your head injury.”

  Keats stared at him. “I…remember feeling so cold. Like I was… Then I felt better, warmer. I thought it was because of the blanket.” He glanced over at Jacynda again. The cheese plate was empty, and she was eagerly eyeing the teapot.

  The sergeant issued a long sigh. “So, what is it like? Have we gained utopia?”

  Alastair relaxed, despite the skepticism in his friend’s tone.

  “I sense that’s not the case,” he replied. “Although their medicine is infinitely superior, all is not well. Jacynda’s job, as I understand it, is to keep time on track. They send visitors to different eras, and apparently some of them are inclined to meddle.”

  “So nothing much changes, then,” Keats replied sourly.

  “Not that I can tell. She has tenacious enemies. Mark my words, this—” he pointed toward the darkened circle at her temple, “is something far more unholy than a knock on the head.”

  “Something from her time?” Keats inquired, sounding curious in spite of himself.

  “I fear so.” Alastair offered Jacynda a cup of tea. “Here, it will warm you.” She looked at Keats for approval. He gave a nod and she took the cup. When Alastair went to put his hand on her forehead, she shrank backward.

  “I promise I will not hurt you,” he repeated gently. She nodded and he touched her skin. “No fever, at least.”

  “That’s a miracle,” Keats remarked. “She was wet up to her waist. I had no way of warming her.”

  “River,” she murmured.

  “What?” Alastair asked.

  “River. Cold. Threw me in.”

  Keats leaned closer. “Someone threw you in the river?”

  She nodded and then pointed to her neck. “Brother.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Not brother.”

  “Was it the same fellow who stabbed you?” Keats pressed.

  “I doubt it,” Alastair remarked. “He was found guilty of her lover’s murder and is incarcerated in her time. At least that’s what she told me.”

  “Lord, she has more enemies than I do.” Keats watched her swirling the tea in her cup, entranced by the eddies. “How will you treat her?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps her memory will return spontaneously, but I doubt it. I will consult Reuben. He may be able to offer some advice.”

  “At least she’s off the streets,” Keats allowed. He began to pull on his socks and then his boots. “I miss my good pair. These make my feet ache.”

  “While you’re here, I should examine your rib, ensure it is healing properly,” Alastair offered.

  “No need. It’s doing fine. I’d best leave. If Ramsey finds me on this side of the river…” Keats took down the last bit of his tea with a gulp.

  “Jacynda?” he said, kneeling in front of her. He took one of her hands and kissed it. “Alastair will take care of you. You can trust him.”

  She looked from him to the doctor and back. A nod.

  Like a small child who has to be told what to believe.

  The sergeant reluctantly rose. “At least that worry is resolved.”

  As they walked down the passageway to the back door, Alastair asked, “Do you need money?”

  “No. I have an ample sum.”

  “Where are you staying if I need to find you?”

  “Rotherhithe. I’m at Mrs. O’Neill’s boarding house on Neptune Street. It’s near the chemical works. I’m known as Sean Murphy over there. Send a note, rather than coming yourself. It’s too dangerous for both of us.”

  “If I come, I’ll be en mirage.”

  It took a moment for that to register. “So I’ve finally pulled you down that road, have I?”

  “Somehow, I always knew you would.” They clasped hands and then Keats hurried across the yard to whatever fate awaited him.

  The nice man with the beard had said she’d be safe here, that the new man would take care of her. She would just have to trust them. With nothing else to do, Cynda’s eyes wandered around the kitchen. It was clean but sparse. There were a few dishes in the tall cabinet on the wall and only a teapot on the stove. It was so quiet compared to the crazy place.

  The man with the brown hair returned. “I’ll lay a fire in the parlour. It’ll be more comfortable there,” he told her. “I’m sorry, I just moved in. I don’t have a lot of things squared away yet.”

  It sounded like this was important to him, but she had no idea why.

  “I collected your Gladstone from Pratchett’s when you didn’t return,” he continued, carrying a load of kindling into the next room. She followed him noiselessly as he dropped the wood into the hearth and then lit the gas lamps, one by one. “It’s just there,” he said, pointing toward a black bag sitting next to a chair.

  Cynda studied it, running her hands over the leather. There was a long rent in the side of it. Then she pulled her hand back suddenly, a cold pang shooting through her chest.

  She looked up at him. He was staring into her face, puzzled.

  “Something…bad,” she said, shivering.

  “You were mortally injured when you were carrying it. Your lover’s ashes were inside that Gladstone. You took him home with you.”

  “Lover?”

  “You can’t remembe
r him, either,” he murmured. “How much you’ve lost. Well, come here and watch me light the fire.”

  Cynda hefted the case and brought it with her. Sitting on the floor near him, she began to pull out the contents, one by one, like a child on Christmas morning. First, the clothes. She held a navy dress for a long time, eyes closed.

  “Pretty,” she whispered.

  “Yes, especially when you’re wearing it.”

  That only confused her. By the time he had the fire lit, she’d set the clothes aside and was holding the stuffed animal.

  He looked over at it. “Is it a weasel?”

  Cynda shook her head, hugging it fiercely, not knowing why it brought her such comfort. After she set it in her lap, she dug further into the case, pulling out a small box. She opened the top, peered inside and then slammed it shut.

  “Sad,” she said, pushing it away on the floor. “Can’t.”

  The man looked like he understood. “You may not remember Mr. Stone’s name, but you still feel his loss.” He waved her over to the couch. “Come here, it’s too cold on the floor for you. I’ll fetch you a blanket.”

  When he returned, she was clutching the stuffed animal in her arms again. It felt good to pet the top of its head.

  “Jacynda, do you know who I am?” the man asked.

  She nodded. “Fred.”

  The hope in his eyes evaporated. “No, I’m Alastair. I’m a doctor. Do you remember me now?”

  “No.” The pieces in her brain just weren’t coming together. She could see images, places, people, but they made little sense.

  “My God,” he murmured. His voice sounded different now, as if there were small pebbles in it. “What have they done to you?”

  She stopped petting and moved her finger upward to the side of her head where the strange mark resided. She tapped it a few times.

  “Will it get better on its own?”

  She shrugged.

  “Damn them,” he muttered.

  She started at. Something wasn’t right.

  “I apologize. I’m sounding like you now.” Then he paused. “You remembered I don’t swear, at least not often.” A smile grew on his face. “I would think that a good sign.” He pointed toward the animal. “You say that he is not a weasel. What kind of creature is he, then?”

  She frowned. “Fer…fer…

  “Ferret?”

  “Yes. It’s a fer...ferret.”

  Heartened, he returned to another question. “What’s your name?”

  The handkerchief came to mind. Cynda pulled it out of her pocket and extracted the damaged piece of paper.

  “Jacynda,” she announced. When he reached for it, she hid it away. She trusted him, but it was the only thing that told her who she really was.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “At the crazy place. A woman gave to me.”

  “But how did she know your name?” He frowned. “Someone had to tell her. Who brought you there?”

  “Macassar,” she replied, pointing to her head.

  “I’m sorry, I’m as confused as Keats about this.” He tucked the blanket around her. “I think it’s best we remove your boots. Your socks are probably wet, and that will not do a thing for your health.” She leaned over and watched him unlace each of them. When he removed the second one, a single coin fell to the floor.

  He laughed. “I’d forgotten—you store your money in the most improbable of places.” He picked it up and showed it to her. “It’s a shilling.”

  “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I was so hungry.”

  The man’s humor withered. “How long have you been on the streets?”

  “Ah…don’t know,” she told him. “There was a man…I ran away from him. He wasn’t right.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding. “Trust your instincts. That’s the best protection you have right now. Now tuck your feet under the blanket. They’re very cold.”

  She did as he asked. He placed her boots and damp socks near the fireplace. Sitting on the couch with her, he opened up a book and then displayed it to her.

  “You bought this for me, though I doubt you remember that now. It has proven very helpful. Thank you.”

  She had no idea what he was talking about, but it seemed to make him feel better. As she held the little animal she stared at the fire. It made her warm and drowsy. Every now and then, the doctor would look over at her then return to his book.

  “Just you and me tonight,” he informed her. “Mrs. Butler will move in tomorrow morning. She will be a great help.”

  “Who?”

  He shook his head, dismayed. After a few more minutes, he thumped the book shut and set it aside. Cautiously, she leaned against him and he tucked her under his arm. He would make a good brother, she thought. He’d never try to hurt her. Try to throw her in the river.

  “Go ahead and sleep. You’re safe here,” he whispered.

  Reassured, she nestled closer.

  Chapter 10

  Keats cut south toward a landing where he could hire a waterman to take him to Church Stairs. He kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to hear a shout or a police whistle at any moment. Once he was in Rotherhithe, he’d be fine.

  Only a few more days. Find Flaherty and the explosives, then everything would fall in place. The charges would be dropped and he might be able to resume his career, though there would no doubt be disciplinary action for his egregious behavior. Hopefully, they wouldn’t bust his rank.

  When he reached the landing, he saw a waterman returning across the Thames, oars breaking the surface in long, sure strokes. Keats tugged up his collar, trying not to look nervous.

  Speed it up, will you?

  The boat was forty yards from the shore when he saw the constable. The fellow was swinging his lantern around, hunting for something.

  Me.

  If he moved from his spot, it would look suspicious. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay put. The boat glided toward the shore as the constable tromped on. It would be too close for his liking. In the dark, he saw a second boat approach the first, causing it to stop. The two watermen began to chat about whatever was on their minds, a waiting customer be damned.

  Talk to him later! He had no choice now and turned away, intending to skirt along the river’s edge and cross using the underwater tunnel.

  “Sir?” a voice called. It was a second constable and his bull’s-eye lantern caught Keats straight in the eyes, blinding him.

  “Constable,” he acknowledged, shielding his face.

  “What’s your business, sir?”

  “Goin’ cross the river to my wife and bed,” he replied, pushing the working-class accent to the hilt.

  “What were you doing in Whitechapel?”

  “Lookin’ for a job. T’ain’t any to be found.”

  Behind, Keats heard the first constable approaching. He was trapped between them.

  “Ya need a row across, mate?” a voice called. The waterman had finally arrived.

  Keats turned away from the glare of the lamp. “I do.”

  “Then get aboard,” the fellow called. Keats made sure not to hurry, moving more like a tired man might rather than one fearing arrest. Behind him, the two constables talked amongst themselves.

  As the boat steadily moved away from shore, Keats allowed himself to relax. Finally, he could no longer resist and he looked back over his shoulder at the constables. One was waving his lantern, like he was signaling someone. Keats turned toward the far shore. Another lantern swung in reply.

  They’d figured out who he was, but too late. “Let’s land a bit further upstream,” Keats suggested.

  “Prince’s Stairs?”

  There was a police station near there. “No, Cherry Garden Stairs,” he replied.

  “Cost ya extra.”

  “I’m good for it.” Keats leaned back in the boat.

  Too close.

  A few minutes later Keats heard the sound, but tried to ignore it. There were a number of
steam vessels on the Thames, he assured himself. It could be any one of them. The noise continued, rising in intensity. When the boat’s bow chugged out of the darkness, it angled to cut them off from the far shore. Keats swore under his breath. The constables had signaled a launch.

  The waterman shot Keats a questioning look. “I can cut ’round ’em, try a run down river.”

  Was it worth the risk? Could they escape? He only needed a few more days…

  “Don’t bother. It’s not worth the risk to you and the boat.”

  The man shipped the oars.

  “If you have any sense, you’ll claim you recognized me right off and were going to turn me in once you reached Bermondsey. That way, you might be able to collect the reward.”

  “Reward?” the man repeated eagerly.

  “It’s a large one. Seventy-five quid is the last number I heard.”

  Realization dawned as the waterman gave a low whistle. “Yer that copper they’re looking for.” Keats nodded. “That’s a right fair number. Did ya do it?”

  “No.” Which is why I am the unluckiest man in all of Christendom.

  As the launch drew nearer, a familiar voice bellowed across the water. “Thought you’d get away, didn’t you, you little gnome?”

  Ramsey. Keats groaned aloud. Why couldn’t it have been the two constables? The Ram, as he called him, would make this arrest a personal triumph.

  He waited until the launch pulled up alongside, sending the small boat rocking precariously. “You’re a bit late,” Keats called out, issuing a wink to the waterman. “This fine gent had already nicked me.”

  “Ah…I spied him right off,” the man shouted.

  Clancy was right: he won’t collect a bit of brass out of this.

  “We’ll sort the reward out later. Now get your arse up here, Sergeant.” Ramsey turned to a trio of Thames constables and barked, “Got some chains on this boat? I want him secured. He’s a wily one. If he gets loose, I’ll have every one of you up on charges.”

  What an overbearing sod. He’s playing it to the hilt.