Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(105)

“He’s the one,” another protested. “They nicked him right proper.”

“Not sure ’bout that.”

Cynda felt hope stir. If they weren’t sure, maybe history wasn’t either.

“I’ve got all my legs crossed,” her delusion announced. “Hard to hold on that way, though.” That made her smile, despite the situation.

Thanks.

She returned her gaze to the flagpole. The bell would toll when the drop was opened, and then they’d run up the black flag. If she could sense the seconds passing from out here, what was it like for Keats?

Just then, she caught sight of a man working his way through the crowd. He passed a chimney sweep, then paused and shook hands with the fellow. Her mouth fell open. T.E. Morrisey was clad in period garb, looking more like a clerk than a toff with that bowler. He was carrying a pasteboard suitcase. He approached her with a casual nod, as if this rendezvous had been planned.



“What are you—?”

“It’s supposed to bring good luck,” he explained, offering his soot-stained hand.

She continued to stare. He had no business here. It was too dangerous for him. And yet… Cynda bit her lip in frustration. It was good to see him again.

Morrisey moved closer, lowering his voice. “Things are melting down at home. I’ll tell you more later.”

Oh, what the hell. They shook hands, her frown deepening. He might have invented this technology, but as a Rover he was a babe in the woods.

One more person to worry about.

“All…right. Stick close and ensure nothing you value is in a pocket.” Like your interface.

He nodded ruefully. “Already learned that lesson. Luckily, the urchin only got a shilling.”

She leaned closer and whispered to him of the previous night’s events.

He smiled in approval. “Excellent. I wondered how you were going to handle the situation since your original plan went awry.”

“It’s time!” someone called out. A shout went up around them.

Cynda jammed her eyes shut and prayed harder than she ever had in her life.

Come on! You know it’s not supposed to be this way.

She felt a reassuring hand on her elbow. “Keep faith,” he said. “History often has a mind of its own.”

Cynda had nurtured similar hopes last night, riding high on the adrenalin rush. Now, as she stood outside this stone prison, one of hundreds awaiting the flag to rise, she knew only one thing for certain.

Time had become her enemy.

~??~??~??~





Keats heard the sound of the key in the lock: he was as ready as any man could be. He’d arisen at dawn, shaved and taken only a cup of strong tea, refusing the brandy and food they’d offered.

But it was not the executioner who stepped into his cell.

“Chief Inspector,” he said, his heart swelling in gratitude.

How could I ever think you would forget me?

Fisher’s demeanor had changed. He didn’t carry himself with as much authority, and though immaculately dressed, it was easy to discern the emotional and physical toll these few weeks had exacted.

At least I shall be at peace when this is over.

The two guards departed without saying a word. His superior waited until the door shut behind them and then he spoke. “Sergeant, I thought…” He shook his head. “It is absurd to be so formal at this moment.”

Knowing he needed time to compose himself, Keats kept silent, hearing the seconds tick off. When his mentor finally did speak, his voice almost broke. “I have come to offer my apology, Jonathon. I have failed you. We should have been able to prove your innocence, just as we should have found the true killer.”

“We were all fighting a losing battle,” Keats replied. “I do not hold you or Ramsey accountable in any way.”

“That is very gracious. Still, I came to make peace with you.” He halted for some time. Keats began to worry that he wouldn’t finish what he wanted to say before the executioner arrived.

“I must admit, Jonathon, I am rarely in awe of other men, yet your final statement in the courtroom was one of the finest I have ever heard.” His eyes moved away and he blinked rapidly. “They have reprinted it in the newspapers. It is what is fueling the fury around this debacle.”

“Sir, I—”

There was the turn of a key in the lock. The cleric stepped inside the cell.

“It is time,” he said solemnly.

Keats delivered a short nod. He didn’t know what to say. How should he thank Fisher for being the father he’d always wanted?



They began to shake hands, but that wasn’t enough. His mentor embraced him. Keats could feel him trembling with emotion. He was doing the same. When they broke apart, Fisher murmured, “The truth will out in time. Rest easy, Jonathon. Your job is done.”

“Thank you…J.R. I could not have asked for a better man to guide me.”

“That remains to be seen.” His voice broke again. “I’m sorry, I cannot be present when… I cannot watch this travesty unfold.”

“I do not want you there,” Keats said, feeling tears in his eyes. “It would only make it worse.” He wiped them away as a figure appeared in the doorway. It was Berry, the executioner.