Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(103)

“There were a number of…” Oh hell. She discarded formality. “I’ll be blunt. There were a lot of bluebloods who were bedding Nicci Hallcox,” she explained, “and they don’t want their names made public. Especially since she had syphilis. Pressure is being brought to bear to ensure Keats dies quickly so that the whole thing can be swept under the rug.”

The future King of England blinked at her extreme candor. “What of the people who actually have the explosives?”

“We’re not sure who they are,” she replied. That really wasn’t a lie. They could look like anyone. Even you.

The prince moved closer. “You are convinced of this man’s innocence?”

“I am. He’s a good cop, through and through.”

The trace of a smile. “I see you are wearing the necklace I sent you.”

“Yes. It is very pretty.”

“So are you.”

She blinked in surprise. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

He looked over at his equerry and then back. “I think a note will not carry the same weight as a visit from one of my emissaries,” the prince surmised. “I shall have that person discuss the matter with both the Home Office and the PM and ask how they intend to proceed in light of this new evidence.”

Relief washed over her. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”

“There is a quid pro quo, however,” he said, his eyes sparkling.

“Dinner?” she asked, hoping that was all he was expecting. It was all he was going to get.

He nodded. “It will not be onerous. In fact, it could be quite pleasant.”

“A meal only, Your Royal Highness.”



He blinked again and then smiled widely. “Exactly. I think it will be more exciting to talk to you about your profession rather than participate in other…pursuits. I can do that with any woman.”

By the time she’d risen from the second curtsy, he was gone, his equerry in tow.

“You’re on a roll,” Mr. Spider said, landing with a plop on her shoulder. “I am impressed.”

Don’t be. Unless Keats is alive at 8:01 in the morning, this is all theatrics.





Chapter 5




Tuesday, 6 November, 1888

Near Stock

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Mr. Posh Detective,” Ramsey said, detangling a thorn bush from his suit. It was one of his better ones. By the time we get done here, it’ll be the worst.

“I think I miss Chicago more than I realized,” Anderson replied, removing thorns of his own.

Ramsey had to agree. Summoned out of his bed by the chief inspector, he’d been stunned to hear Flaherty had confirmed the sergeant’s alibi. Based on the two Fenians’ statements, Ramsey had been charged with finding the coffin in the woods near Stock.

In the middle of the bloody night.

Knowing how difficult it would be, he’d brought Anderson with him, figuring the Pinkerton fellow might as well get some exercise. After all, if he was going to be miserable, he’d make sure others were as well. Inspectors were very good at that sort of thing.

Around them, a group of ten men from the local pub were working through the underbrush, fueled by alcohol and the promise of a sizeable breakfast come morning. The pair who found the coffin would get five quid each and their names in the Chicago Herald. That would bring any man out into the forest.

Between scrabbling over wooden fences and tangling with the various nasty bushes, it’d been hours of frustration for all. Four of the searchers had given up and headed back to town. Ramsey couldn’t blame them. As for himself, he’d stay until daylight, when it would be too late.

When he next looked around, Anderson was gone. Ramsey groaned.

Just my luck; he’s going to get lost, and I’ll get the blame.

“Where the hell are you, Anderson?”

“Where you should be—standing by the coffin,” the man called back.



“What? Keep calling out,” Ramsey bellowed. Anderson continued to chide him as the inspector charged through the bushes like an enraged bear. Branches slapped at his face and pulled at his clothes. He made it to the clearing at the same time as the other men. The American was kneeling next to an overturned coffin, a smug grin on his face.

“Good thing I came along,” he joked. “You Limeys couldn’t find your behinds with both hands.”

“Oh, sod off,” Ramsey laughed, still catching his breath. “Are you any good at sketching scenes, Anderson?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Positioning the men and their lanterns to best effect, Ramsey examined the area around their find. He spied two strips of red cloth. One for the hands, one for the mouth. Just like one of the Fenians had said in his statement. Ramsey pocketed them. Setting his own lantern aside, he knelt and slowly righted the toppled coffin. Anderson leaned closer, pencil scratching rapidly in his notebook.

“You, bring that lantern closer,” Ramsey ordered. One of the locals complied, illuminating a dark stain on the coffin’s interior. “I think that might be blood,” he proposed.

“Probably from the blow to his face,” Anderson agreed.

Ramsey nodded. “Can you imagine waking up in this thing? I’d have pissed myself.”