Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(106)

He cleared his throat. “I must pinion you, sir.”

The chief inspector paused at the cell door, gave Keats a final nod and then went his way with unsteady steps.

The hangman positioned Keats’ hands and made final adjustments to the straps. “I understand you have not confessed to this crime.”

“No, sir, I have not. I swear before God that I did not kill her.”

The hangman paused in his preparations, his face troubled. “I have no desire to execute an innocent man, but I must perform my duty.”

“Yes, you must. Just as I did mine.”

The procession moved down the corridor toward the execution shed, a lengthy troop of officials, and the condemned. The Chief Warder headed up the procession, followed by other warders, the chaplain, then Keats and Berry. Behind them were more officials. Though the hangings were no longer public, there still needed to be witnesses.

Keats heard the many footfalls. To his ears, his were steady and did not falter. He took comfort in that. Sweat streamed down his back, though the air was chilly. As they entered Bird Cage Walk, he looked upward through the grills to the open air, the last time he would ever see the sky.

“One moment, please,” he said, halting. There was a brief murmur of protest from one of the men, but it was silenced by Berry.



Tipping his face upward, Keats drank in the morning light. Soon, he would be part of that light, free of the burdens of this life. He would repent to his God in person, and perhaps be able to see his beloved mother again. How he longed to feel her arms around him once more.

“Thank you.” With that, he resumed his progress across the uneven flooring. They would leave him on the rope for an hour, then conduct the post-mortem. Once all the proper paperwork was in order, they would bury him here with the other criminals, covered in quicklime. There would be no final resting place where his family could visit and lay flowers. Instead, his body would become part of the foundation that other condemned men would pass over in years to come.

As he walked, the cleric intoned prayers. Keats was only faintly aware of the words. Soon, they would hoist the black flag and post a public notice that Jonathon Davis Keats had been executed for Murder on this Sixth day of November, One Thousand Eight Hundred and Eighty-Eight. Someone would probably keep it as a memento.

As they entered the open area inside the prison walls that housed the execution shed, Mr. Berry placed the white cap on Keats’ head.

This is it.

Keats’ eyes darted toward the witnesses. There were about a dozen reporters and officials. To his relief, Alastair was not present. He had not wanted his best friend to watch him die. He had said that repeatedly. Perhaps Alastair had finally acquiesced to his most fervent wish.

As he entered the door to the execution shed, he began trembling. This was truly the end. When they had him stop on top of the trap doors, the cap was pulled down, obscuring his vision of the mechanism that would kill him.

Raw panic seized him. Why was he going to his death like a passive lamb? Why didn’t he fight them, shout out his innocence, bellow curses at their heinous deed?



Keats took a deep breath and mastered his fear, though it still choked him as tightly as any rope. He would die with as much dignity as he could muster, if nothing more than as a final tribute to his family and to the man who had been his mentor.

He held his breath, waiting for the feel of the hemp, its weight around his neck, the positioning under his left chin. All the while, muffled words were being exchanged.

Get on with it. His courage was not endless. He could only hold the panic in check for so long.

More murmuring. Then raised voices.

“What is the matter?” he demanded.

“One moment. We’re sorting this out,” someone said.

His anger exploded. “Sort it out on your own time, will you? If you mean to execute me, do it, by God! If not—”

The cap was abruptly removed. He blinked in the muted light of the execution shed. Near the door was a knot of men, talking animatedly. Involuntarily, his eyes drifted upward to the scaffold. To the rope.

“Best not to look that way, Mr. Keats,” Berry advised, giving him a slight turn.

“What is going on?” he asked again, his throat suddenly arid.

“Some matter about your execution, sir,” Berry replied. His tone was clipped, evidence the hangman was displeased with the interruption.

To his surprise, Keats now saw Alastair in the group. Wescomb’s voice rose above the others. Then the group parted. The Chief Warder moved forward.

“Mr. Keats, I am to inform you that there has been a stay of execution.”

“What?” He struggled to understand. “What do you mean? I am pardoned?”

“No, sir. It is a stay only.”

Wescomb hustled forward, his face florid with exertion. “We have witnesses who place you in Whitechapel during the time of the murder. They can prove you are innocent of this crime.”

Keats’ mouth dropped open. Despite the executioner’s warning, he turned to stare up at the rope. His mind recalled the walk from the cell, the feel of the cap, the hollow sound of the trap doors beneath his boots.



What if they don’t exonerate me? What if I have to face this again?

“I cannot,” Keats cried, pulling back. “Dear God, not again!” Then he lost the will to stand.