Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(107)

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In the distance, Cynda heard St. Sepulchre’s bell tolling the hour. Six…seven…eight. Then its mournful sound ceased.

“Come on,” she whispered.

The crowd shuffled restlessly as voices relayed a message.

“No hangin’ today!” someone shouted.

“What?” another called back. “Why not?”

“Stay of hex-e-cution,” the first voice shouted back.

There were hoots of displeasure. And a few cheers.

“I knew they’d not ’ang ’im,” a man said. “They’d never ’ang a copper.”

Oh, God, it actually worked.

“Very well done,” Morrisey murmured, his voice full of pride.

“It’s not over yet.”

They still have time to kill him.





Chapter 6




Keats regained his senses, shivering intensely. He felt someone pull a blanket up on his chest. Was this what it was like to be dead?

His hand fumbled for his neck, but only found his collar open. There was no soreness or abrasion. No rope.

I’m dreaming.

“Keats?”

Blinking open his eyes, he found himself in the cell, Alastair watching him intently. “Ah, that’s better,” his friend remarked, his face filling with relief. “I have sent for some tea.”

“I have been asleep, haven’t I? They will come for me soon.” Come to take to me to my death.

“Only when they have everything resolved.”

I dreamt it all. It hasn’t happened yet. Keats’ shivering returned.

“Easy there. You’re fine, just a nasty shock.”

“What?”

“The new evidence has thrown the city into turmoil. So many questions are being asked,” Alastair explained.

“What?” Then he remembered Wescomb saying something about witnesses. “What has happened?”

The doctor placed a hand on Keats’ shoulder, smiling broadly. “Flaherty came forward on your behalf.”

“Flaherty?” he exclaimed, struggling to a sitting position over Alastair’s protests. “Why?”

“It is a very strange tale,” the doctor replied. “Lie back and I’ll tell you all of it.”

Keats complied, allowing his friend to reposition the blanket. He stared at the ceiling as Alastair’s voice filled the cell, recounting the remarkable events of the previous evening. It was a fight not to interrupt.

In the middle of the tale, a cup of tea was delivered. After Alastair added a dose of something from a flask he had in his jacket pocket, Keats pulled himself into a sitting position and took the proffered cup. The liquid shook along with his hands.



“Sip it slowly. It has a fair amount of brandy in it,” the doctor advised.

“Go on. I must hear the rest of it.” He worked on the strong brew as Alastair finished the story.

“Then you have all of my possessions from that night,” he surmised.

“Everything but your notebook. That is still missing.”

Keats could only shake his head. “I still don’t believe it.”

“Frankly, they had little choice. Somehow, Jacynda succeeded in speaking with the Prince of Wales and made an impassioned plea on your behalf.”

Keats’ mouth dropped open. “How did she do that?”

“I did not ask. His Royal Highness sent his own man to Home Office and to the Prime Minister early this morning to express his gravest concern that justice be served. It was only then that things came to fruition.”

“Then why did they take me to the scaffold?” Keats asked, baffled.

“We did not receive notice until the very last moment, my friend,” Alastair explained, his eyes radiating sympathy. “Lord Wescomb and I were detained by the crowd and had just arrived at the prison when the word came.” He sighed deeply. “It was a near thing.”

Keats forced a wan smile. “I was as prepared as a man can be for the end. Now, if they uphold the verdict, I don’t know how I will cope.”

“You must trust that they will not. There is much debate on this issue. I gather the matter will be heard by the Lord Chief Justice himself, so there will be no question of partiality.”

Keats snorted. “Partiality? My trial was rammed ahead, as was my appointment with Mr. Berry. I would hate to think what would have happened if I’d received special treatment.”

He knew he sounded bitter. What man wouldn’t be?

Alastair rose. “You’re regaining your temper. That is a good sign. I apologize, but I must go. I’m to testify at Effington’s inquest this afternoon.”



“Full day you have there, my friend,” Keats remarked sourly. “Hanging in the morning, inquest in the afternoon.”

“I shall return this evening,” Alastair continued, apparently knowing it was best not to argue. “Please rest. You’ve had a tremendous shock. It would be very unfortunate if your health collapsed because of this.”

Keats clutched the cup in his hands, knuckles whitening.

As the cell door opened, he called out, “Alastair?” His friend turned. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”