Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(100)

“Good heavens!” Alastair exclaimed, shifting through the papers. “These are witness statements regarding the night of the Hallcox murder.”

Flaherty nodded. “Keats was in Whitechapel with us when that posh lady was killed. He could’na strangled her. Ya see, I was one step away from cutting out his liver, when the mercy of God stayed my hand.” His laugh was low and harsh. “Nah, that’s not right. It was that damned priest’s fault. Instead of cuttin’ him up, I had Paddy hit the rozzer on the jaw and take him into the country to get him out of the way for a time.”

The chief inspector’s face displayed a volatile mixture of indignation and sudden hope. “How did you get him out of London?”

“In a coffin,” Paddy replied. “I makes them. It’s steady work.”

No kidding.

Fisher pressed on. “Where did you leave Sergeant Keats?”

“Near Stock, in the woods.”

“Keats said he walked for a very long time before he reached the train tracks,” Alastair recalled.

Paddy shrugged his huge shoulders. “If’n he’d gone south, he’d a been right in Stock quick as ya please. Musta got lost.”

“Did you tie him up?” Fisher asked.

A nod. “With some strips of red cloth.”

Cynda moved her attention away from Flaherty for a moment. Alastair was studying the papers, hands trembling. When his eyes rose to meet hers, she winked. That earned her a nervous smile.

“Tell me precisely what happened that night,” Fisher ordered.

Flaherty frowned. “It’s on the papers.”



“Tell me anyway.” A pause. “Please.”

“One of my men said he saw the sergeant talkin’ to that whore…Red Annie,” Flaherty explained. “We found him near Old Montague Street about quarter till eleven.”

“You sure about the time?” Wescomb quizzed.

“I am.”

“Then what happened?”

“He tried to arrest the lot of us, can you believe it?” Flaherty shook his head. “That rozzer’s got some brass.”

With another nod from his boss, Paddy unceremoniously dropped a canvas bag on the polished walnut table next to Alastair. Passing the papers to Sephora, the doctor opened the sack. The first item to hand: a pocket watch. A flick of the cover and a sigh of relief. “It’s Keats’. It’s inscribed to him.”

“Right sorry about breakin’ it,” Paddy offered sheepishly. “It happened when I hit him.”

Alastair’s face lit up. “It’s stopped at 10:57.”

Wescomb’s moustache twitched upward in a smile. “Are you two willing to swear in court that Sergeant Keats was in your presence on that night at that exact time?”

“I won’t,” Flaherty stated flatly. “That paper’ll speak for me.”

“I’m not sure they’ll believe a piece of paper.”

The Irishman looked over at his companion.

Paddy nodded. “I’ll tell ’em. It ain’t right, him hangin’ for somethin’ he didn’t do, even if he is a filthy rozzer.”

Fisher whistled under his breath. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because this young lady made a deal with me,” Flaherty replied.

“What deal? If you think—”

“Mr. Flaherty needs our help, Chief Inspector, and even though I know that goes against your grain, that’s the deal,” Cynda replied.

“What sort of help?” Fisher demanded.

“It’s my daughter, Fiona. She was workin’ in Effington’s household and went missin’ right after I stole the explosives. Someone took her. I can’t find her now. None of us can. Ahearn got close, and they cut his throat.”



“Ahearn,” Fisher said. “We thought—”

Flaherty shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. He was like family to me. And God help the bastard who did if I ever find him.”

“Where are the explosives?” Fisher asked.

Flaherty’s face clouded over. “If ya find my daughter, I’ll give ya the lot of them with no trouble.”

The chief inspector leaned back into his chair with a whoosh of air. “I’ll be deuced.”

“With these statements and the new evidence,” Alastair said, gesturing toward the watch, “will that be enough to halt the execution?”

Wescomb’s lips thinned. “Perhaps. It depends on who is willing to listen to us.”

“Would Justice Hawkins help us?” Alastair asked.

“We may need to go to the Lord Chief Justice himself.”

Fisher looked intently at the Fenian. “Who are these people who took your daughter?”

“I don’t know their names,” Flaherty replied. “They look like anyone they want.”

Silent words were traded around the room.

“I see,” Wescomb replied. “I have heard of such people.”

“They are usin’ my daughter to make sure I do what they want. If I don’t, they said they’d gut her like one of the Ripper’s…” His voice caught, and he lowered the dynamite. The cigar was going out, but he made no attempt to prevent it.